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Illustrated Magazine 

For Young Folks 



Part I., November, 1893, to April, i8 



Copyright, 1894, by The Century Co. 

The De Vinne Press. 

Library, Univ. of 
North Carolina 




Six Months — November, 1893, to April, 1894. 



Accommodating Lion, An. Verse. (Illustrated by O. Herford) Tudor Jenks 436 

Adventure on the Way to the Fairy Court, An. Picture, drawn ) 

by Albertine Randall Wheelan ) ' 

Adventure with a Hackee, An. (Illustrated by Georg Stoopendaal) . . .Samuel Conkey 185 

American Authors. (Illustrated) Brander Matthews. 

Benjamin Franklin 316 

"As I Went Strolling Down the Street." Jingle. (Engrossed and \ 

illustrated by Georg Stoopendaal) ) ' ' * ' "* 

Babette. (Illustrated by W. Granville Smith) Mary A. Winston 340 

Bachelor's Button. Poem Mary E. Wilkins 548 

Best-loved of All, The. Poem. (Illustrated by the Author) Katharine Pyle 170 

Bird's-eye View of the Animal Kingdom, A. (Illustrated) William T. Hornaday 231 

Boruwlaski, Joseph. (Illustrated) Mary Shears Roberts 402 

Boy Whaler, A. (Illustrated by W. Taber and others) Gustav Kobbe 444 

Brer Fox in Trouble. Verse. (Illustrated by W. H. Drake) Tudor Jenks 85 

Broken Friendship. (Illustrated by F. S. Church) Harriet Monroe . . 407 

Brownies in Fairyland, The. Play. (Illustrated by the Author) Palmer Cox 462, 535 

Brownies Through the Union, The. Verse. (Illustrated by the Author). Palmer Cox. 

The Brownies in Massachusetts 242 

Careful Little Maid, A. Poem. (Illustrated by the frontispiece) Helen Gray Cone 291 

Cat Family in Our Country, The. (Illustrated by J. C. Beard, L. ) 

Palmer, and others \ W,lham T ' Hornaiia y 409 

Checker-board, A Novel. Picture, drawn by P. Newell 478 

Children of the Plaisance, The. (Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) Clara Doty Bates 55 

Christmas Bells. Poem. (Illustrated) P. P. Arnold 2S2 

Christmas Morning. Picture, drawn by Georg Stoopendaal 190 

Christmas Sleigh-ride, The. Poem. (Illustrated by J. Bolles) Helen Gray Cone 149 

"City" Series. (Illustrated.) 

New Orleans George W. Cable 40, 150 

St. Augustine Prank P. Stockton 207 

San Francisco Charles H. Shinn 519 

Clever Parson, The. Verses. (Illustrated by G. B. Fox) Laura E. Richards 564 

Coasting Song, A. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) E. Louise Liddell 247 

Cousin Lucrece. Poem. (Illustrated by Albert E. Sterner) Edmund Clarence Stedman . . . 136 

Cox, Palmer. (Illustrated) Fannie Ratti 238 

Critical Move, A. From a painting by Francis C. Jones 146 

Cup of Tea, A. Verse. (Illustrated by Georg Stoopendaal) E. L. Sylvester 169 

Cyclone, A Kansas. (Illustrated by Thomas Moran) John M. Steele 440 

Daffodils. (Illustrated from photographs) • Frances E. Gifford 566 

Dagger, The Story of a. (Illustrated by C T. Hill) Lida C. Tulloch 450 

Day-dreams on the Dike. (Illustrated by Marcia Oakes Woodbury). . . .Mary Mafes Dodge 15 

Dead-letter Office, The. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill from photographs) .Patti Lyle Collins 367 

December. Picture, drawn by Lizbeth B. Comins 171 

Dime Museum, The. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Malcolm Douglas 38 

Disappointed Sailor, The. Verse. (Illustrated by R. F. Bunner) Lee Carter 416 

Diver's View of the Ocean World, A. Picture, drawn by J. C. Beard 237 

Dolls' Christmas Dinner, The. Picture, drawn by V. Perard 215 

Dreamer, The. Poem Arlo Bates 551 

Dutch Companie, The. Poem. (Illustrated by Otto Beck) Charles Washington Coleman . . 314 

\ Dutch Vamily, A. Verse. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) Joel Stacy 184 

(4 Duty. Verse Amelia Burr 324 

fp Electricity, A Lesson in. (Illustrated) Philip Atkinson 453 

*" Encounter with a Boa, An. Picture, drawn by Georg Stoopendaal 264 



Ethel's Discovery. (Illustrated by A. W. Van Deusen) Emilic Poulsson 248 

Fairy Godmother, A. Poem Mary Bradley 303 

Ferry, Nicholas. (" Bebe.") (Illustrated by H. A. Ogden) Mary Shears Roberts 50 

Flood, The True History of the. (Illustrated by W. Taber) Mary Bentley Thomas 562 

Franklin, Benjamin. (Illustrated) Brander Matthews 316 

French Story. (" Les Petits Sabots de Marie.") Kate IV. Lawrence 147 

Frightened Bottle, The. Picture, drawn by John Richards 78 

" General Sherman's Bear." (Illustrated by J. Carter Beard) Edward S. Wilson 138 

German Band, The. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Malcolm Douglas 172 

Glacier in Greenland, On a. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Albert White Vorse 491 

Go-as-you-please Race, A. Picture, drawn by Louis Rhead 83 

Good Neighbors. (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) Tudor Jenks 324 

Great Traveler, A. Jingle. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Nell K. McElhone 517 

Gretchen and Katchen. Poem. (Illustrated by the frontispiece) Helen Gray Cone 483 

Guesses. Poem Kate Putnam Osgood 452 

" Happy Thanksgiving to You, A." Picture, drawn by G. B. Fox 63 

Helen Keller's Letter Helen Keller 1 75 

Helen Keller's Visit to the World's Fair. (Illustrated) Anna M. Sullivan 174 

Historic Dwarfs. (Illustrated) Mary Shears Roberts. 

III. Nicholas Ferry. (Bebe) 50 

IV. Joseph Boruwlaski 402 

House on the Rath, The. Poem. (Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) Bliss Carman 159 

How Paper Money is Made. (Illustrated by Irving R. Wiles and V. Perard) .Clifford Hotvard 217 

How Ted Marched with the Regulars. (Illustrated by G. A. Traver) . Gwendolen Overton 178 

How the Little Kite Learned to Fly. Verse. (Illustrated by the \ 

Author) \ Katharme Pyle 473 

How the Secretary of the Treasury Played Santa Claus. (Illus- ? 

trated by E. M. Ashe) \ Sara L ~ Guain 2 ' 2 

Imaginary Case, An. Jingle. (Illustrated by Georg Stoopendaal) E. L. Sylvester 425 

In the Country. Poem. (Illustrated by Julian Rix) Frank H. Sweet 64 

Jack Ballister's Fortunes. (Illustrated by the Author) Howard Pyle 497 

Jamison, Mrs. Cecile Viets. (Illustrated) Olive Otis. . : 560 

JAVA, The Little People from. (Illustrated by the Author) W. A. Rogers 275 

Jingles 225, 264, 339, 401, 425, 517 

Jolly Miller, The. Jingle. (Engrossed and illustrated by G. R. Halm). .John Ernest McCann 339 

Kansas Cyclone, A. (Illustrated by Thomas Moran) John M. Steele 440 

Keller, Helen; A Visit to the World's Fair. (Illustrated) Anna M. Sullivan 174 

Kept After School. Jingle Agnes Lewis Mitchill 401 

King of Pleasure. (Illustrated by A. W. Van Deusen) Ella Wheeler Wilcox 465 

Lament of the Outgrown Doll, The. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) . . .Julia Schayer 408 

Leaves and Flowers. Poem S. E. H 49 

Les Petits Sabots de Marie LCate W. Lawrence 147 

. Lesson in Electricity, A. (Illustrated) Philip Atkinson 453 

Lesson in Numbers, A. Verse. (Illustrated by Minna Brown) Emilie Poulsson 18 

Letter from Bruin Polar Bear to Tommy, A. (Illustrated by the } 

Author) .....\ F - S - Ch ™ h 567 

Lilac, The. Poem Mary E. Wilkins 391 

Little Man of Morrisburg, The. Jingle. (Illustrated by Georg) 

Stoopendaal) ^ \wilham Wye Smah 225 

Little People from Java, The. (Illustrated by the Author) W. A. Rogers 275 

Little Santa Claus. (Illustrated by A. W. Van Deusen) Janet Logie Robertson 374 

Maid Bess. Poem. (Illustrated by Frederick L. M. Pape) Anna Robeson Brown 143 

Malicious Spoon, The. Picture, drawn by John Richards 78 

Man-o'-War's Menagerie, A. (Illustrated by J. S. Pughe) Don C. Seitz 434 

Member of the Harnessing Class, A. (Illustrated by W. H. Drake) .Susan Coolidge 33 

Merry Christmas, Grandpa ! Picture, drawn by V. Perard 181 

Merry-go-round Afloat, The. Verse. (Illustrated by R. F. Bunner). .Lee Carter 366 

Merrythought. (Illustrated by E. M. Ashe) L. J. Sanderson 79 

Misery and Co. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) J. R. Smith 72 



Money, Paper. (Illustrated by Irving R. Wiles and V. Perard) Clifford Howard 217 

Monkeys of North America, The. (Illustrated by J. Carter Beard and { 

,. ,.,, »t ,\ ( William T. Hornaday 333 

Meredith Nugent) ) J °°° 

" Mothering Sunday." (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Mary B. Merrill 387 

Movvgli's Brothers. (Illustrated by W. H. Drake) Rudyard Kipling 195 

Musical Neighborhood, A. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Malcolm Douglas 357 

Needle in the Haystack, The. (Illustrated by R. F. Bunner) Lee Carter 467 

Neighbors. Picture, drawn by Georg Stoopendaal 591 

Neil Wentworth's Famous Rush Etheldred Breeze Barry 73 

New Orleans. (Illustrated by Harry Fenn, W. H. Drake, and others) .... George W. Cable 40, 150 

Old Christmas. Song. (Illustrated by Louis Rhead) Virginia Woodward Cloud .... 112 

Ottar Birting. Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Hjalmar H. Boyesen 549 

Over the Bridge to the King's Highway. Poem. (Illustrated by > 

R R TV ■ M S Virginia Woodward Cloud .... 29 

Owl's Convention, The. Verse. (Illustrated by F. S. Church) Henry S. Cornwell 132 

Owney, of the Mail-bags. (Illustrated from a photograph) M. I. Ingersoll 388 

Palmer Cox and the Brownies. (Illustrated) Fannie Ratti 238 

Pictures 49, 63, 78, 83, 94, 128, 146, 171, 17S, 181, 190, 215, 237, 264, 271, 309, 391, 401, 478, 512, 567, 571 

Pigtail of Ah Lee Ben Loo, The. Verse. (Illustrated by the Author) .John Bennett 530 

Plaisance, The Children of the. (Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) Clara Doty Bates 55 

Pop-corn Man, The. Verse. (Illustrated by E. M. Ashe) Clinton Scollard 229 

Quadrupeds of North America. (Illustrated) William T. Hornaday. 

A Bird's-eye View of the Animal Kingdom 231 

Introduction 332 

The Monkeys of North America 333 

The Cat Family in Our Country 409 

Our Wolves and Foxes 484 

Rainy Day, A. Picture. Drawn by Maria L. Kirk 512 

Real Sunflower, The. (Illustrated by the Author) Rudolph F. Bunner 507 

Recollections of the Wild Life. (Illustrated by C T. Hill, G. de >„„,,. , , ,. . 

v ' > Dr. Charles Alexander Eastman 129 

F. Brush, and others) ) „„, „„, „„ „, 

' 226, 306, 437, 513 

Red Dolly, The. (Illustrated) . Hate Douglas Wiggin 114 

Return from the Hunt, The. From a painting by A. Wierusz Kowalski 128 

" Rikki-tikki-tavi." (Illustrated by W. H. Drake) Rudyard Kipling 3 

Roll Away. Verse John Ernest McCann 247 

San Francisco. (Illustrated from photographs) Charles H. Shinn 519 

Santa Claus Messenger Boy, A. Verse J. S 184 

Serious Question in Mathematics, A George Warren Stearns 250 

Shocking. Picture, drawn by Culmer Barnes 94 

Singing Shell and the Clock, The. Poem. (Illustrated by the Author) .Katharine Pyle 84 

Skater's Stratagem, A. (Illustrated by G. B. Fox) Kate W. Hamilton 310 

Snap-shots by Santa Claus. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) \ . T. J 215 

Snow-Bird Times, The. Picture, drawn by F. S. Church 309 

Son of a Hatter, The. Picture, drawn by Georg Stoopendaal 401 

Spring Cleaning. Verse Thomas Tapper 401 

Stamp-Collecting. (Illustrated) Crawford Capen 279 

(A page devoted to the interests of collectors will be found each month in 
the advertising department.) 

St. Augustine. (Illustrated by V. Perard and from photographs) Frank R. Stockton 207 

Story of a Dagger, The. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Lida C. Tulloch 450 

Teddy's Wonderings. Verse John Kendrick Bangs 78 

That Little Girl. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Claude Harris 516 

" The Jar is Tall." Jingle. (Engrossed and illustrated by Georg Stoopendaal). E. L. Sylvester 264 

" This is Sarah Jane Collins." (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) John J. d Becket 155 

Three Robbers, The. Poem. (Illustrated by the Author) Oliver Herford 13 

Tiger ! Tiger ! (Illustrated by W. H. Drake) Rudyard Kipling 292 

Toinette's Philip. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Mrs. C. V. Jamison 65 

161, 265, 358, 417, 552 



Tom Sawyer Abroad. (Illustrated by Dan Beard) Mark Twain 20 

116,250,348,392, 539 

Toomai OF THE Elephants. (Illustrated by W. H. Drake) Rudyard Kipling 99 

Too Sharp for the Czar David Ker 518 

Topsyturvy Concert, A. (Illustrated by Georg Stoopendaal) George B. Bartlett 284 

Towed by an Iceberg. (Illustrated by the Author) Julian 0. Davidson 304 

Travelers of the Sky. (Illustrated by the Author) Harry Fenn 230 

Trouble Ahead. Picture 567 

True History of the Flood, The. (Illustrated by W. Taber) Mary Bcniley Thomas 562 

Two Little Men, The. Jingle. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Malcolm Douglas 517 

Unfeeling Mouse, The. Picture, drawn by Albertine Randall Wheelan 49 

Valentine, A. Verse Anna M. Pratt 305 

Watchword for the New Year, A. Verse J. Edmund V. Cooke 248 

Whaler, A Boy. (Illustrated by W. Taber and others) Gustav Kobbc 444 

What Pussy Said. Verse Sydney Dayre 147 

When It 's Cold. Verse. (Illustrated) John Ernest McCann 19 

When It Snows. Poem 11 1 

When I Was a- Walking. Verse A. Lee 171 

When the Man in the Moon was a Little Boy. Verse Henrietta Christian Wright . . . 135 

When We Have Tea. Verse Thomas Tapper 89 

Where 's Mother ? Verse. (Illustrated by A. W. Van Deusen) Sarah S. Baker 32 

Which Shall it Be ? Verse. (Illustrated by G. Wright) Helen Whitney Clark 376 

Wise Little Woman Who Opened the Pews, The. Poem. (Illus- 1 

trated by R. B. Birch) ^Hezekiah Butterworth 259 

Witch in the Candle, The. Verse. (Illustrated by R. F. Bunner) . . . .Lee Carter 238 

Wolves and Foxes, Our. (Illustrated by J. Carter Beard, L. Palmer, and \ 

others) ) William T. Hornaday 484 

Word to the Wise, A. Picture, drawn by Georg Stoopendaal 271 

Young George. (Illustrated by W. Granville Smith) Kichard Marsh 426 


"On the Dike," by MarciaOakes Woodbury, facing Title-page of Volume — " Little Toomai," by W. H. Drake, 
page 98 — " Christmas Bloom," by F. C. Martin, page 194 — "A Careful Little Maid," by Maria Brooks, page 290 — 
" Mothering Sunday," by R. B. Birch, page 386 — "Gretchen and Katchen," by Theodore Jurst, page 482. 

Jack-in-the-Pulpit. (Illustrated.) 

Introduction — A Living Hercules Beetle — A Canine Casabianca — The Little Girl with a Company Face — 
The Flower -pickers (illustrated), 86; Introduction — A Man-of-war Rooster — Buffaloes — Walking Around 
the Squirrel — A New Monkey (illustrated), 182; Introduction' — Rapid Growth — Who has Counted Them? — 
From the Little Schoolma'am, 283 ; Introduction — A Dry Bath — A Query — From the Deacon's Scrap-book — 
A Novel Singing-school (illustrated), 470; Introduction — Trillo and his Pets — An Enigma — Little Diving 
Boys — Pete and her Little Ones — Kite-time (illustrated), 570. 

For Very Little Folk. (Illustrated.) 

Pussy's " Good-morning " T. J 89 

When We Have Tea Thomas Tapper 89 

Taking Dolly's Photograph Sydney Dayre 472 

How the Little Kite Learned to Fly Katharine Pyle 473 

Plays and Music. 

Old Christmas. Song Virginia Woodward Cloud .... 112 

A Topsyturvy Concert George B. Bartlett 284 

The Brownies in Fairyland Palmer Cox 462, 535 

Through the Scissors 90, 186, 378, 474 

The Letter-box. (Illustrated) 92, 1S8, 284, 380, 476, 572 

The Riddle-box. (Illustrated) 95, 191, 287, 383, 479, 575 

Editorial Notes iSS, 3S0, 476, 572 

'who knows but my little man may grow to be a grand burgo.meister some day 

(SHE PAGE 17.) 


Vol. XXI. 

NOVEMBER, 1893. 

Copyright, 1S93, by The Century Co. All rights reserved. 

No. 1. 


By Rudyard Kipling. 

This is the story of the great war that Rikki- 
tikki-tavi fought single-handed through the 
bath-rooms of the big bungalow in Segowlee 
cantonment. Darzee, the tailor-bird, helped 
him, and Chuchundra, the muskrat, who never 
comes out into the middle of the floor, but 
always creeps round by the skirting-boards, 
gave him advice; but still Rikki-tikki did the 
real fighting. 

He was a mongoose, something like a little 
cat in his fur and his tail, but quite like a weasel 
in his head and his habits. His eyes and the 
end of his restless nose were pink ; he could 
scratch himself anywhere he wanted to with 
any leg, front or back, that he chose to use; he 
could fluff up his tail till it looked like a bottle- 
brush, and his war-cry as he scuttled through 
the long grass was : Rikk-tikk-tikki-tikki-tchk .' 

One day a high summer flood washed him 
out of the burrow where he lived with his father 
and mother, and carried him, kicking and cluck- 
ing, down a roadside ditch. He found a little 
wisp of soggy grass floating there, and clung to 
it till he lost his senses. When he revived, 
he was lying in the hot sun on the middle of a 
garden path, very draggled indeed, and a small 
boy was saying : " Here 's a dead mongoose. 
Let 's have a funeral." 

"No," said his mother; "let 's take him in 
and dry him. Perhaps he is n't really dead." 

They took him into the house, and a big man 
picked him up between his finger and thumb 
and said he was not dead at all; and they 
wrapped him in cotton wool, and warmed him 
over a little fire, and he opened his eyes and 

" Now," said the big man (he was an Eng- 
lishman who had just moved into the bunga- 
low); "don't frighten him, and we '11 see what 
he '11 do." 

It is the hardest thing in the world to frighten 
a mongoose, because he is eaten up from nose to 
tail with curiosity. The motto of all the mon- 
goose family is, " Run and find out "; and Rikki- 
tikki was a true mongoose. He looked at 
the cotton wool, decided that it was not good 
to eat, ran all round the table, sat up and put 
his fur in order, scratched himself, and took a 
flying jump on the small boy's neck. 

" Don't be frightened, Teddy," said his 
father. " That 's his way of making friends." 

" Ouch ! He 's tickling under my chin," said 

Rikki-tikki looked down between the boy's 
collar and neck, snuffed at his ear, and climbed 
down to the floor, where he sat rubbing his 

" Good gracious," said Teddy's mother, " and 
that 's a wild creature ! I suppose he 's so tame 
because we 've been kind to him." 




" All mongooses are like that," said her hus- 
band. " If Teddy does n't pick him up by the 
tail, or try to put him in a cage, he '11 run in and 
out of the house all day long. Let 's give him 
something to eat." 

They gave him a little bit of raw meat. Rik- 

ki-tikki liked it 
immensely, and 
when it was fin- 
ished he went out 
into the veranda 
and sat in the sun- 
shine and fluffed 
up his fur to make 
it dry to the roots. 
Then he felt bet- 

" There are 
more things to 
find out about in 
to himself, " than 
all my family 
could find out in 
all their lives. I 
shall certainly 
stay andfind out." 
Rikki-tikki gave up that day to roaming over 
the house. He nearly drowned himself in the 
bath-tubs ; put his nose into the ink on a writing- 
table, and burned it on the end of the big man's 
cigar, for he climbed up in the big man's lap to 
see how writing was done. At nightfall he went 
into Teddy's nursery to watch how kerosene 
lamps were lighted, and when Teddy went to bed 
Rikki-tikki climbed up too, but he was a restless 
companion, because he had to get up and attend 
to every noise all through the night, and find 
out what made it. Teddy's mother and father 
came in, the last thing, to look at their boy, 
and Rikki-tikki was awake on the pillow. " I 
don't like that," said Teddy's mother; "he 
may bite the child." " He '11 do no such 
thing," said the father. " Teddy 's safer with 
that little beast than if he had a bloodhound to 
watch him. If a snake came into the nursery 

But Teddy's mother would n't think of any- 
thing so awful. 

Early in the morning Rikki-tikki came to 


early breakfast in the veranda riding on Teddy's 
shoulder, and they gave him banana and some 
boiled egg; and he sat on all their laps one 
after the other, because every well-brought- 
up mongoose always hopes to be a house- 
mongoose some day and have rooms to run 
about in, and Rikki-tikki's mother (she used to 
live in the General's house at Segowlee) had 
carefully told Rikki what to do if ever he 
came across white men. 

Then Rikki-tikki went out into the garden 
to see what was to be seen. It was a large 
garden, only half cultivated, with bushes of 
Marshal Niel roses as big as summer-houses ; 
lime- and oranges-trees, clumps of bamboos, and 
thickets of high grass. Rikki-tikki licked his 
lips. " This is a splendid hunting-ground," he 
said, and his tail grew bottle-brushy at the 
thought of it, and he scuttled up and down 
the garden, snuffing here and there till he 
heard very sorrowful voices in a thorn-bush 
It was Darzee, the tailor-bird, and his wife. 
They had made a beautiful nest by pulling 
two big leaves together and stitching them up 
the edges with fibers, and they had filled the 
hollow with cotton and downy fluff. The nest 
swayed to and 
fro, and they 
and cried. 

" What is 
the matter ? " 
asked Rikki- 

" We are 
very miser- 
able," said 
Darzee. "One 
of our babies 
fell out of the 
nest yester- 
day and Nag 
ate him." 

" H'm ! " 
said Rikki- 
tikki, " that is 
very sad — 
but I am a stranger here. Who is Nag ? " 

Darzee and his wife only cowered down on 
the nest without answering, for from the thick 




grass at the foot of the bush there came a slow 
hiss — a horrid cold sound that made Rikki- 
tikki jump back two clear feet. Then inch 
by inch out of the grass rose up the head and 
spread hood of Nag, the big black cobra, and 
he was five feet lone: from tongue to tail. 

"he put his nose into the ink." 

When he had lifted one third of himself clear 
of the ground, he stayed balancing to and fro 
exactly as a dandelion-tuft balances in the 
wind, and he looked at Rikki-tikki with the 
wicked snake's eyes — that never change their 
expression, whatever the snake is thinking of. 

" Who is Nag ? " he said. " / am Nag. 
The great god Brahm put his mark upon all 
our people, when the first cobra spread his 
hood to keep the sun off Brahm as he slept. 
Look, and be afraid ! " 

He spread out his hood more than ever, and 
Rikki-tikki saw the spectacle-mark on the back 
of it that looks exactly like the eye part of a 
hook-and-eye fastening. He was afraid for 
the minute ; but it is impossible for a mongoose 
to stay frightened for any length of time, and 
though Rikki-tikki had never met a live cobra 
before, his mother had fed him on dead ones, 
and he knew that all a mongoose's business 
in life was to fight and eat snakes. Nag knew 
that too, and at the bottom of his cold heart 
he was afraid. 

" Well," said Rikki-tikki, and his tail began 
to fluff up again, " do you think that it is 
right for you to eat fledgelings out of a nest ? " 

Nag was thinking to himself, and watching 

the least little movement in the grass behind 
Rikki-tikki. He knew that a mongoose in the 
garden meant death sooner or later for him 
and his family; but he wanted to get Rikki- 
tikki off his guard. So he dropped his head 
a little, and put it on one side. 

" Let us talk," he said. " You eat eggs. 
Why should not I eat birds ? " 

" Behind you ! Look behind you ! " sang 

Rikki-tikki knew better than to waste time 
in staring. He jumped up in the air as high 
as he could go, and just under him whizzed by 
the head of Nagaina, Nag's wicked wife. She 
had crept up behind him as he was talking, to 
make an end of him ; and he heard her sav- 
age hiss as the stroke missed. He came down 
almost across her back, and if he had been an 
old mongoose he would have known that then 
was the time to break her back with one bite ; 
but he was afraid of the terrible lashing return- 
stroke of the cobra. He bit, but he did not 
bite long enough, and jumped clear of the 
whisking tail, leaving Nagaina only torn and 

" Wicked, wicked Darzee !" said Nag, lashing 
up as high as he could reach toward the nest in 

rikki-tikki was awake on the pillow. 

the thorn-bush; but Darzee had built it out of 
reach of snakes, and it only swayed to and fro. 
Rikki-tikki felt his eyes growing red and hot 
(when a mongoose's eyes grow red, he is angry), 
and he sat back on his tail and hind legs like a 
little kangaroo, and looked all round him, and 
chattered with rage. But Nag and Nagaina 
had disappeared into the grass. When a snake 
misses its stroke, it never says anything or gives 



any sign of what it means to do next. Rikki-tikki 
did not care to follow them, for he did not feel 
sure that he could manage two snakes at once. 
So he trotted off to the gravel path near the 


house, and sat down to think. It was a serious 
matter for him. If you read the old books of 
natural history, you will find they say that when 
the mongoose fights the snake and happens to 
get bitten, he runs off and eats some herb that 
cures him. That is not true. The victory is 
only a matter of quickness of eye and 
quickness of foot, — snake's blow 
against mongoose's jump,- 
and as no eye can fol- 
low the motion 
of a snake's 
head when 

all the more pleased to think that he had 
managed to escape a blow from behind. It 
gave him confidence in himself, and when 
Teddy came running down the path, Rikki- 
tikki was ready to be petted. But just as 
Teddy was stooping, something wriggled a little 
in the dust, and a tiny voice said : " Be careful. 
I am Death ! " It was Karait, the dusty brown 
snakeling that lies for choice on the dusty earth ; 
and his bite is as dangerous as the cobra's. But 
he is so small that nobody thinks of him, and 
so he does the more harm to people. 

Rikki-tikki's eyes grew red again, and he 
danced up to the karait with the peculiar rock- 
ing, swaying motion that he had inherited from 
his family. It looks very funny, but it is so per- 
fectly balanced a gait that you can fly off from it 
at any angle you please; and in dealing with 
snakes this is an advantage. If Rikki-tikki had 
only known, he was doing a much more danger- 
ous thing than fighting Nag, for the karait is 
so small, and can turn so quickly, that unless 
Rikki bit him close to the back of the head, he 
would get the return-stroke in his eye or his lip. 
But Rikki did not know : his eyes were all red, 
and he rocked back and forth, looking for a 
good place to hold. The karait struck out, 
Rikki jumped sideways and 
tried to run in, but the wicked 
little dusty gray head lashed 
within a fraction of his shoul- 
der, and he had to jump over 
the body, and the head fol- 
owed his heels close. 
Teddy shouted to the house : 
" Oh, look here ! Our 

mongoose is 



it strikes, that makes it much more wonder- snake"; and Rikki-tikki heard a scream from 
ful than any magic herb. Rikki-tikki knew Teddy's mother. His father ran out with a stick, 
he was a young mongoose, and it made him but by the time he came up, the karait had lunged 



out once too far, and Rikki-tikki had sprung, 
jumped on the snake's back, dropped his head 
far between his fore-legs, bitten as high up 
the back as he could "et hold, and rolled 


away. That bite paralyzed the karait, and 
Rikki-tikki was just going to eat him up from 
the tail when he remembered that a full meal 
makes a slow mongoose, and if he wanted all 
his strength and quickness ready, he must keep 
himself thin. He went away for a dust-bath 
under the castor-oil bushes, while Teddy's father 
beat the dead karait. " What is the use of 
that?" thought Rikki-tikki — "I have settled 
it all"; and then Teddy's mother picked him 
up from the dust and hugged him, crying that 
he had saved Teddy from death, and Teddy's 
father said that he was a providence, and Teddy 
looked on with big scared eyes. 

That night at dinner, walking to and fro 
among the wine-glasses on the table, he might 
have stuffed himself three times over with nice 
things ; but he remembered Nag and Nagaina, 
and though it was very pleasant to be patted 
and petted by Teddy's mother, and to sit on 
Teddy's shoulder, his eyes would get red from 
time to time, and he would go off into his long 
war-cry of " Rikk-iikk-iikki-tikki-tchk .'" 

Teddy carried him off to bed, and insisted on 
Rikki-tikki sleeping under his chin. Rikki- 
tikki was too well bred to bite or scratch, but 
as soon as Teddy was asleep he went off for 
his nightly walk round 
the house, and in the 
dark he ran up against 
Chuchundra, the musk- 
rat, creeping round 
by the skirting-board. 
Chuchundra is a 
broken-hearted little 
beast. He whimpers 
and cheeps all the 
night, trying to make 
up his mind to run into 
the middle of the room, 
but he never gets there. 
"Don't kill me," said 
Chuchundra, almost 
weeping. " Rikki-tikki, 
don't kill me." 

" Do you think a 
snake-killer kills musk- 
rats ? " said Rikki-tikki 

" Those who kill 
snakes get killed by snakes," said Chuchundra, 
more sorrowfully than ever. " And how am I 
to be sure that Nag won't mistake me for you ? " 
" There 's not the least danger," said Rikki- 
tikki ; " but Nag is in the garden, and I know 
you don't go there." 

" My cousin Chua, the rat, told me — " said 
Chuchundra, and then he stopped. 
" Told you what ? " 

" H'sh ! Nag is everywhere, Rikki-tikki. 
You should have talked to Chua in the gar- 

" I did n't — so you must tell me. Quick, 
Chuchundra, or I '11 bite you ! " 

Chuchundra sat down and cried till the tears 
rolled off his whiskers. " I am a very poor 
man," he sobbed. " I never had spirit enough 
to run out into the middle of the room. H'sh ! 
I must n't tell you anything. Can't you hear, 
Rikki-tikki ? " 

Rikki-tikki listened. The house was as still 
as still, but he thought he could just catch 
the faintest scratch-scratch in the world, — 




a noise as faint as a fly walking on a window- 
pane, — the dry scratch of a snake's scales on 

" That 's Nag or Nagaina," he said to him- 
self; " and he is crawling into the bath-room 
sluice. You 're right, Chuchundra ; I should 
have talked to Chua." 

He stole off to Teddy's bath-room, but there 
was nothing there, and then to Teddy's mo- 
ther's bath-room. At the bottom of the smooth 
plaster wall there was a brick pulled out to 
make a sluice for the bath-water, and as Rikki- 
tikki stole in by the masonry curb where the 
bath is put, he heard Nag and Nagaina whis- 
pering together outside in the moonlight. 

" When the house is emptied of people," said 
Nagaina, " he will have to go away, and then 
the garden will be our own again. Go in 
quietly, and remember that the big" man who 
killed Karait is the first one to bite. Then 
come out and tell me, and we will hunt for 
Rikki-tikki together." 

" But are you sure that there is anything to 
be gained by killing the people ? " said Nag. 

" Everything. When there were no people 
in the bungalow, did we have any mongoose in 
the garden ? So long as the bungalow is 
empty, we are king and queen of the garden; 
and remember that as soon as our eggs in the 

-WifWiK ... - - • 


melon-bed hatch (they may hatch to-morrow), 
our children will need room." 

" I had not thought of that," said Nasr. " I 

will go, but there is no need that we should 
hunt for Rikki-tikki afterward. I will kill the 
big man and his wife, and the child if I can, and 
come away quietly. Then the bungalow will 
be empty, and Rikki-tikki will go. 1 will come 
in the morning, Nagaina." 

Rikki-tikki tingled all over with rage and 
hatred at this, and then Nag's head came 
through the sluice, and his five feet of cold 
body followed it. Angry as he was, Rikki-tikki 
was very frightened as he saw the size of the 
big cobra. Nag coiled himself up, raised his 
head, and looked into the bath-room in the 
dark, and Rikki could see his eyes glitter. 

" Now, if I kill him here, Nagaina will know; 
and if I fight him on the open floor, the odds 
are in his favor. What am I to do ? " said 

Nag waved to and fro, and then Rikki-tikki 
heard him drinking from the biggest water- 
jar that was used to fill the bath. " That is 
good," said' the snake. " Now, when Karait was 
killed, the big man had a stick. He may have 
that stick still, but when he comes in to bathe in 
the morning he will not have a stick. I shall 
wait here till he comes. Nagaina — do you 
hear me ? — I shall wait here in the cool." 

There was no answer from outside, so Rikki- 
tikki knew Nagaina had gone away. Nag 
coiled himself down, coil 
by coil, round the bulge 
at the bottom of the 
water-jar, and Rikki-tikki 
stayed still as death. 
After an hour he began 
to move, muscle by 
muscle, toward the jar. 
Nag was asleep, and 
Rikki-tikki looked at 
his big back, wonder- 
ing which would be the 
best place for a good 
hold. " If I don't break 
his back at the first 
jump," said Rikki, " he 
can still fight." He 
looked at the thickness 
the neck below the hood, but that was 
too much for him ; and a bite near the tail 
would only make Nag savage. 



^ ^ 

'then rikki-tikki was battered to and fro as a rat is shaken by a dog." 

" It must be the head," he said at last — 
" the head above the hood ; and, when I am 
once there, I must not let go." 

Then he jumped. The head was lying a 
little clear of the water-jar, under the curve 
of it; and, as his teeth met, Rikki braced his 
back against the bulge to hold down the head. 
This gave him just one second's purchase, and 
he made the most of it. Then he was bat- 
tered to and fro as a rat is shaken by a dog — 
to and fro on the floor, up and down, and 
round in great circles, but his eyes were red and 
he held on as the body cartwhipped over the 
floor, upsetting the tin dipper and the soap- 
dish and the flesh-brush, and banged against 
the tin side of the bath. As he held he closed 
his jaws tighter and tighter, for he made sure 
he would be banged to death, and, for the 
honor of his family, he preferred to be found 
with his teeth locked. He was dizzy, aching, 
and felt shaken to pieces when something went 

off like a thunderclap just behind him ; and 
a wind knocked him senseless and red fire 
singed his fur. The big man had been wa- 
kened by the noise, and had fired both bar- 
rels of a shot-gun into Nag just behind the 

Rikki-tikki held on with his eyes shut, for 
now he was quiet sure he was dead ; but the 
head did not move, and the big man picked 
him up and said : " It 's the mongoose again, 
Alice ; the little chap has saved our lives now." 
Then Teddy's mother came in with a very 
white face, and saw what was left of Nag, and 
Rikki-tikki dragged himself to Teddy's bed- 
room and spent half the rest of the night 
licking himself to find out whether he really 
was broken into forty pieces. 

When morning came he was very stiff, but 
well pleased with his doings. " Now I have 
Nagaina to settle with, and she will be worse 
than five Nags, and there 's no knowing when 




the eggs she spoke of will hatch. Goodness ! 
I must go and see Darzee." 

Without waiting for breakfast, Rikki-tikki 
ran to the thorn-bush where Darzee was singing 
a song of triumph at the top of his voice. The 
news of Nag's death was all over the garden, 
for the sweeper had thrown the body on the 

"Oh, you stupid tuft of feathers!" said Rikki- 
tikki, angrily. " Is this the time to sing ? " 

"Nag is dead — is dead — is dead!" sang 
Darzee. " The valiant Rikki-tikki caught him 
by the head and held fast. The big man 
brought the bang-stick, and Nag fell in two 
pieces ! He will never eat my babies again." 

" All that 's true enough ; but where 's 
Nagaina ? " said Rikki-tikki, looking carefully 
round him. 

" Nagaina came to the bath-room sluice and 
called for Nag," Darzee went on ; " and Nag 
came out on the end of a stick — the sweeper 
picked him up on the end of a stick and threw 

" For the great, the beautiful Rikki-tikki's 
sake I will stop," said Darzee. " What is it, 
O Killer of the terrible Nag ? " 

" Where is Nagaina, for the third time ? " 

" On the rubbish-heap by the stables, mourn- 
ing for Nag. Great is Rikki-tikki with the 
white teeth." 

" Bother my white teeth ! Have you ever 
heard where she keeps her eggs ? " 

" In the melon-bed, on the end nearest the 
wall, where the sun strikes nearly all day. She 
put them there weeks ago." 

" And you never thought it worth while to 
tell me ? The end nearest the wall, you said ? " 

" Rikki-tikki, you are not going to eat her 
eggs ! " 

" Not eat exactly ; no. Darzee, if you have a 
grain of sense you will fly off to the stables 
and pretend that your wing is broken, and let 
Nagaina chase you away to this bush ? I must 
get to the melon-bed, and if I went there now 
she 'd see me." 


him upon the rubbish-heap. Let us sing 
about the great, the red-eyed Rikki-tikki ! " and 
Darzee filled his throat and sang. 

" If I could get up to your nest, I 'd roll 
your babies out!" said Rikki-tikki. " You don't 
know when to do the right thing at the right 
time. You 're safe enough in your nest there, 
but it 's war for me down here. Stop singing 
a minute, Darzee." 

Darzee was a feather-brained little fellow 
who could never hold more than one idea at 
a time in his head ; and just because he knew 
that Nagaina's children were born in eggs like 
his own, he did n't think at first that it was fair 
to kill them. But his wife was a sensible bird, 
and she knew that cobra's eggs meant young 
cobras later on ; so she flew off from the nest, 
and left Darzee to keep the babies warm, and 



sing his song about the death of Nag. Darzee 
was very like a man. 

She fluttered in front of Nagaina by the 
rubbish-heap, and cried out, " Oh, my wing is 
broken ! The boy in the house threw a stone 
at me and broke it." Then she fluttered more 
desperately than ever. 

Nagaina lifted up her head and hissed, "You 
warned Rikki-tikki when I would have killed 
him. Indeed and truly, you 've chosen a bad 
place to be lame in." And she moved toward 
Darzee's wife, slipping along over the dust. 

" The boy broke it with a stone ! " shrieked 
Darzee's wife. 

" Well ! It may be some consolation to you 
when you 're dead to know that I shall settle 
accounts with the boy. My husband lies on the 
rubbish-heap this morning, but before night the 
boy in the house will lie still. What is the use 
of running away ? I am sure to catch you. 
Little fool, look at me ! " 

Darzee's wife knew better than to do that, for 
a bird who looks at a snake's eyes gets so 
frightened that she can't move. Darzee's wife 
fluttered on, piping sorrowfully, and never leav- 
ing the ground, and Nagaina quickened her 

Rikki-tikki heard them going up the path 
from the stables, and he raced for the. end of 
the melon-patch near the wall. There, in the 
warm litter about the melons, very cunningly 
hidden, he found twenty-five eggs, about the 
size of a bantam's eggs, but with a whitish skin 
instead of shell. 

" I was not a day too soon," he said ; for 
he could see the baby cobras curled up inside 
the skin, and he knew that the minute they were 
hatched they could each kill a man or a mon- 
goose. He bit off the tops of the eggs as fast 
as he could, taking care to crush the young 
cobras, and he turned over the litter from 
time to time to see whether he had missed 
any. At last there were only three eggs left, 
and Rikki-tikki began to chuckle to himself, 
when he heard Darzee's wife screaming : 

'• Rikki-tikki, I led Nagaina toward the house, 
and she has gone into the veranda, and — oh, 
come quickly — she means killing! " 

Rikki-tikki smashed two eggs, and tumbled 
backward down the melon-bed with the third 

egg in his mouth, and scuttled to the veranda 
as hard as he could put foot to the ground. 
Teddy and his mother and father were there 
at early breakfast ; but Rikki-tikki saw that 
they were not eating anything. They sat stone- 
still, and their faces were white. Nagaina was 
coiled up on the matting by Teddy's chair, 
within easy striking distance of Teddy's bare 
leg, and she was swaying to and fro, singing a 
song of triumph. 

" Son of the big man that killed Nag," she 
hissed, " stay still. I am not ready yet. 
Wait a little. Keep very still, all you three. 
If you move I strike, and if you do not move 
I strike. Oh, foolish people, who killed my 

Teddy's eyes were fixed on his father, and 
all his father could do was to whisper, " Sit 
still, Teddy. You must n't move. Teddy, keep 

Then Rikki-tikki came up and cried : " Turn 
round, Nagaina ; turn and fight ! " 

" All in good time," said she, without mov- 
ing her eyes. " I will settle my account with 
you presently. Look at your friends, Rikki- 
tikki. They are still and white. They are 
afraid. They dare not move, and if you come 
a step nearer I strike." 

" Look at your eggs," said Rikki-tikki, " in 
the melon-bed near the wall. Go and look, 

The big snake turned half round, and saw 
the egg on the veranda. " Ah-h ! Give it to 
me," she said. 

Rikki-tikki put his paws one on each side of 
the egg, and his eyes were blood-red. " What 
price for a snake's egg ? For a young cobra ? 
For a young king-cobra? For the last — the 
very last of the brood ? The ants are eating 
all the others down by the melon-bed." 

Nagaina spun clear round, forgetting every- 
thing for the sake of the one egg ; and Rikki- 
tikki saw Teddy's father shoot out a big hand, 
catch Teddy by the shoulder, and drag him 
across the little table with the tea-cups, safe 
and out of reach of Nagaina. 

" Tricked ! Tricked ! Tricked ! " chuckled 
Rikki-tikki. " The boy is safe, and it was I — 
I — I that caught Nag by the hood last night 
in the bath-room." Then he began to jump 




up and down, all four feet together, his head 
close to the floor. "He threw me to and fro, 
but he could not shake me off. He was dead 
before the big man blew him in two. I did 
it ! Rikki-tikki-kh-kh ! Come then, Nagaina. 
Come and fight with me. You shall not be a 
widow long." 

Nagaina saw that she had lost her chance 
of killing Teddy, and the egg lay between 
Rikki-tikki's paws. " Give me the egg, Rikki- 
tikki. Give me the last of my eggs, and I will 
go away and never come back," she said, low- 
ering her hood. 

" Yes, you will go away, and you will never 
come back; for you will go to the rubbish-heap 
with Nag. Fight, widow ! The big man has 
gone for his gun ! Fight !" 

Rikki-tikki was bounding all round Nagaina, 
keeping just out of reach of her stroke, his 
little eyes like hot coals. Nagaina gathered 
herself together, and flung out at him. Rikki- 
tikki jumped up and backwards. Again and 
again and again she struck, and each time her 
head came with a whack on the matting of 
the veranda and she 
gathered herself to- 
gether like a watch- 
spring. Then Rikki- 
tikki danced in a 
circle to get behind 

her, and 


spun round to 

keep her head 

to his head, so that 

the rustle of her tail on 

the matting sounded like dry 

leaves blown along by the wind. 

He had forgotten the egg. 

It still lay on the veranda, 

and Nagaina came nearer and 

nearer to it, till at last, while Rikki-tikki was 

drawing breath, she caught it in her mouth, 

turned to the veranda steps, and flew like an 





arrow down the path, with Rikki-tikki behind 
her. When the cobra runs for her life, she 
goes like a whip-lash flicked across a horse's 
neck. Rikki-tikki knew that he must catch 
her, or all the trouble would begin again. She 
headed straight for the long grass by the thorn- 
bush, and as he was running Rikki-tikki heard 
Darzee still singing his foolish little song of 
triumph. But Darzee's wife was wiser. She 
flew off her nest as Nagaina came along, and 
flapped her wings about Nagaina's head. If 
Darzee had helped they might have turned 
her; but Nagaina only lowered her hood and 
went on. Still, the instant's delay brought 
Rikki-tikki up to her, and as she plunged into 
the rat-hole where she and Nag used to live, 
his little white teeth were in her tail, and he 
went down with her — and very few mongooses, 
however wise and old they may be, care to fol- 
low a cobra into its hole. It was dark in the 
hole ; and Rikki-tikki never knew when it might 
open out and give Nagaina room to turn and 
strike at him. He held on savagely, and stuck 
out his feet to act as brakes on the dark slope 
of the hot, moist earth. Then the grass by the 
mouth of the hole stopped waving, and Darzee 
said : " It is all over with Rikki-tikki ! We 
must sing his death-song. Valiant Rikki-tikki 
is dead ! For Nagaina will surely kill him 

So he sang a very mournful song that he 
made up on the spur of the minute, and just as 
he got to the most touching part the grass 
quivered again, and Rikki-tikki, covered with 
dirt, dragged himself out of the hole leg by 
leg, licking his whiskers. Darzee stopped with 
a little shout. Rikki-tikki shook some of the 
dust out of his fur and sneezed. " It is all 
over," he said. " The widow will never come 
out again." And the red ants that live between 
the grass stems heard him, and began to troop 
down one after another to see if he had spoken 
the truth. 

Rikki-tikki curled himself up in the grass and 
slept where he was — slept and slept till it was 
late in the afternoon, for he had had a hard 
day's work. 

" Now," he said, when he awoke, " I will go 
back to the house. Tell the Coppersmith, Darzee, 
and he will tell the garden that Nagaina is dead." 

i8 93 -: 



The Coppersmith is a bird who makes a noise 
exactly like the beating of a little hammer on a 
copper pot ; and the reason why he is always 
making it is because he is the town-crier in an 
Indian garden, and tells all the news to every- 
body. As Rikki-tikki went up the path, he 
heard his " attention " notes like a tiny dinner- 
gong ; and then the steady " Ding-dong-iock! 
Nag is dead — dong! Nagaina is dead! Ding- 
dong-tock ! " That set all the birds in the gar- 
den singing, and the frogs croaking ; for Nag and 
Nagaina used to eat frogs as well as little birds. 

When he got to the house, Teddy and 
Teddy's mother (she looked very white still, for 
she had been fainting) and Teddy's father came 
out and almost cried over him ; and that night 
he ate all that was given him till he could eat 
no more, and went to bed on Teddy's shoulder, 
where Teddy's mother saw him when she came 
to look late at night. 

" He saved our lives and Teddy's life," she 
said to her husband. " Just think, he saved all 
our lives." 

Rikki-tikki woke up with a jump, for all the 
mongooses are light sleepers. 


" Oh, it 's you," said he. " What are you 
bothering for ? All the cobras are dead ; and 
if they were n't, I 'm here." 

Rikki-tikki had a right to be proud of him- 
self; but he did not grow too proud, and he kept 
that garden as a mongoose should keep it, till 
never a snake dared show its head inside the 

By Oliver Herford. 

HEY were three robbers: aye, 

And they robbed a red, red rose; 
And they came from out the sky, 

And they went where no man knows. 

One came — a robber bold — 
And a sable coat he wore, 

And a belt of dusty gold, 

And he robbed her treasure-store ; 

, . s 





\ / 


" y 


One came when the day was young, 
And rent the curtain gray 

Of mist that round her hung, 
And he stole her pearls away ; 

One came when the day was dead, 
And no man saw him pass ; 

And he caught her petals red 
And threw them upon the grass. 

Three robbers bold were they, 
And they robbed a red, red rose; 

And they came and went away, 
And whither — no man knows. 


K J - 



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■/.■■■ '', 2< 

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■ . 1 



.-<. - 'X ' 

$ ■ / ■- 

s -■ 

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By the Author of " Hans Brinker." 

There were five of them, — Dirk van Dorf, 
Katrina van Dorf, Greitje Kuyp, Kassy Riker, 
and Ludoff Kleef, — five stout little Holland- 
ers, all well and happy, and all sitting in the 
broad, bright sunlight — dreaming! 

It was not so at first, you must know. They 
had been trudging along the great dike, their 
loose klompen * beating the hard clay, laugh- 
ing a little, talking less, yet 'with an air of good- 
fellowship about them — these chubby little 
neighbor children, who knew each other so well 
that by a nod or a gesture, or throwing a quick 
glance or a smile, they could take one another's 
meaning and make two words do the work of 
twenty. Their fathers and mothers were thrifty, 
hard-working folk living in Volendam, a little 
fishing-village hard by, built under one of the 
dikes of the Zuyder Zee. 

The children, being Hollanders, knew quite 
well that the dike they were treading was a 
massive, wide bank or wall built to keep back 
the sea that was forever trying to spread itself 
over Holland, though Holland by no means 
intended to allow it to do any such thing. And 
they knew also, as did all Volendam, that Jan 
van Riper had been out over long in his little 
fishing-boat, and that there had been heavy 
winds after he started; also that his wife, who 
was continually scolding him, was now going 
about, her eyes red with weeping, telling the 
neighbors how good and easy he was, and how 
he would n't harm a kitten — Jan would n't! 
They knew, moreover, that Adrian Runckel's 
tulip-bed was a show; hardly another man in 
the village had a flower worth looking at, if 
you went in for size, color, and stiffness. They 
knew, besides, that ever so many queer, flap- 
ping and squirming things had been hauled in 
that very morning by Peter Loop's big net — 
only he was dreadfully cross, and would n't let 
a body come near it — that is, a little body. 
Above all, they knew that the mother of Ludoft" 

* Wooden 

Kleef was coming to join them as soon as she 
could finish up her dairy-work, and get herself 
and the children ready. All the party need 
do was to keep along the dike and be good, 
and take care of little Ludoff, and sit down and 
rest whenever they felt like resting, and of all 
things they were not to soil or tear their clothes. 
So you see they were neither empty-headed nor 
careworn, nor were they in any danger of fall- 
ing asleep ; yet there they sat, on the dike, 
dreaming ! 

Kassy Riker was the first to glide into a dream, 
though sitting close beside little Ludoff, who 
wriggled, and wondered why his mother and 
sister and baby brother did n't come. He 
wanted to cry, but he felt in the depths of his 
baby soul that Kassy would n't heed him if he 
did ; and as for the others, Greitje Kuyp was 
gazing a thousand miles out to sea already; 
Katrina van Dorf was so busy with her knit- 
ting that she had forgotten there was such a 
thing as a small boy in the world ; and as for 
big boy Dirk van Dorf, he was altogether too 
grand a person to be moved by any amount of 
howling. So little Ludoff amused himself by 
watching a long straw that in the still air 
hitched itself along till it wavered feebly on the 
edge of the dike, uncertain whether to stay on 
shore or start on a seafaring career. If the 
straw had settled on any course of action, 
Ludoff would have done the same ; but, as it 
was, Ludoff kept on watching and watching it 
until, in the stillness, he forgot all about being 
a little boy who wanted his mother; for was not 
the straw whisking one end feebly, and turning 
round to begin again ? 

Meantime Greitje Kuyp gazed out to sea, the 
great Zuyder Zee, wondering why any one 
should think it was trying to come ashore and 
do mischief. It was so quiet, so grand, and it 
bore the big fishing-smacks so patiently, when 
it could so easily topple them over ! Mother 



was patient and peaceful, too. Greitje, herself, 
so went her day-dream, would be just like 
Mother, one of these days : she would sew and 
mend and churn and bake, only she would 
make more cakes and less bread. Yes, she 
would bake great chests full of cinnamon- 
cakes, — kanecl koekjes, — such as they sold at 
the kermess ; and she would be, oh, just as good 
and kind to her little girl as mother was to her, 
and * * * 

" I 'm not going to stay at home all my life," 
Kassy Riker was thinking or dreaming. "Some 
day I shall keep a beautiful shop in Amsterdam, 
and sell laces and caps and head-gear and 
lovely things; and I '11 curtsey and say j'a, myn- 
heer, like a grand lady ; and I '11 learn to sing 
and dance better than any girl at the kermess ; 
and I shall wear gold on my temples, and have 
a lovely jacket for skating days; and every 
month I '11 come back for a while, and bring 
lovely things to Father, Mother, and the min- 
ister ; and * * * " 

" I 've done full a finger-length of it to- 
day," mused Katrina, as she pressed her red 
lips together and worked steadily at the chain 
she was weaving on a pin-rack for her father. 
" It will be done by his birthday, and I '11 hang 
his big silver watch on it when he 's asleep, and 
then kiss and hug him till he opens his eyes. 
Ah, how we all will wish him a happy day and 
the Lord's blessing! And if he gives me a little 
cart some time for my dog ' Shag' to draw, I think 
I '11 fill it full of wet, shining fish and sell them 
at the market-town. No ; I '11 help Mother very 
hard at making the cheeses ; and I '11 fill the 
cart with them; and soon Mother can have a 
fine new lace cap with the money, and a silk 
apron ; and maybe I '11 be so useful to the 
family that they '11 decide to take me out of 
school; and then — and then I '11 work and 
I '11 save, and save, till perhaps * * * " 

"Can that be Jan van Riper 's boat?" 
thought big boy Dirk, as he eyed a fishing-smack 
just coming into view. " No, it 's my uncle Cuyp's. 
Like enough, Jan has landed somewhere and 
put off to foreign parts, as he often says he will 
when Vrouw van Riper 's tongue gets too lively. 

I would. I 'd like to go to foreign parts, any- 
way. Lots of room for a fellow in Java; lots of 
rich Hollanders there — we Hollanders own it, 
they say ; and there 's no reason a fellow like 
me should n't grow to be a merchant and own 
warehouses, and * * * " 

So the dreams ran on, — Greitje's, Kassy 
Riker's, Katrina's, and Dirk van Dorf's, — all 
different, and all very absorbing. Meantime the 
straw had shown itself so weak-minded and tedi- 
ous that little Ludoff had nodded himself into 
a doze as he leaned against Greitje 's plump 
little shoulder. The time really had not been 
long, only a few moments; for even a smooth sea, 
a soft summer breeze, and five slow but ambitious 
little Dutch natures could not have kept ten 
young legs and ten young arms quiet any longer. 

A great shout from the village came faintly 
to the children's ears. Jan's boat was in 
sight ! The little folk were up and alert in an 
instant. They turned about, to look back 
toward the village, — and if there was n't 
Ludoff 's mother, Mevrouw* Kleef, erect and 
smiling, coming briskly along the dike toward 
them! How handsome she looked, with her 
bright eyes and rosy cheeks, and the big lace 
cap, the blue-and-black short skirt, and the low 
jacket over the gaily-colored under-waist. Her 
little Troide toddled beside her, taking two steps 
to the mother's one, with deep blue eyes fixed 
upon the line of familiar forms just risen from 
the dike. The baby — it was a boy: one could 
tell that by the woolen slaapmuts, or night- 
cap, on his head, for the girl-babies in Volen- 
dam never wear that kind — the baby, trig 
and smart, gazed from the mother's arms at the 
same five familiar little forms, and in a mo- 
ment the children all were crowding around the 

" Jan is back, is n't he ? " asked Dirk. 

"Yes, I suppose so," she answered carelessly. 
The good woman was rather tired of her neigh- 
bor Jan van Riper's frequent misbehavings and. 
false alarms. 

"My, how warm the day!" she added, gently 
setting the baby down on the turf beside her;: 
"and the dear child is as weighty as a keg of 
herring ! " 

" Oh, oh, the beauty ! " exclaimed the girls,. 

Vol. XXL— 3. 

' Mevrouw, Madam (pronounced Meffrouw). 




quite enraptured with the little one; while Dirk 
and Ludoff doubled their fists, and pretended 
'(to his great delight) they were going to pum- 
mel him soundly. 

"Yes," said the mother. "He 's a bouncing 
little man, and with a good head of his own. 
I was saying to myself as I came along that I 
should n't wonder if he should get to be a grand 
burgomeister some day, and rule a city, and lift 
us all to greatness — was n't I, my little one? 
There, there, don't pull my skirt off, my Ludoff! " 

Then looking brightly from one to another of 
the group about her, Mevrouw Kleef asked : 

"And what have you been about — you, Dirk, 
Katrina, and the rest of you ? " 

"Nothing," answered the children; but they 
all looked very happy. Day-dreams linger 
about us, you know, and light our way even 
when they are half forgotten. 

So the mother took up her little burgomeis- 
ter, and, rosy and smiling, trod her way back to 
the village, the children trudging after. 


By Emilie Poulsson. 

I have a little lesson* 
In numbers, every day ; 
And, if you like, I '11 tell you 
The kind I have to say — 
I call them play. 

There was a little pigeon, 
And when he said " Coo-coo ! " 
Another little pigeon 
Close down beside him flew — 
Then there were two. 

Two pretty ships were sailing 
As grandly as could be ; 




And " Ship ahoy ! " another 
Sailed out upon the sea — 
Then there were three. 

I had a pretty rose-bush 
That grew beside my door; 
Three roses bloomed upon it, 
And soon there came one more- 
Then there were four. 

Four bees a-gathering honey — 
The busiest things alive ; 
And soon there came another 
From out the crowded hive. 
Then there were five. 

Those last were rather hard ones — 
The roses and the bees; 
But my mama says " Numbers 
Get harder by degrees," 
Harder than these ! 


By John Ernest McCann. 

needles are in your fingers and toes; 
When icicles hang from the snow-man's nose ; 
When the frost on the pane makes sugary trees, 
And wagon-wheels over the hard ground wheeze; 
When the toughened old farmer flings round his arms 
As if he 'd throw them across two farms ; 
When ears are rubbed, and noses are red, 
And sheets are like ice in the spare-room bed ; 
When water-pipes burst, and wells freeze up, 
And the tea is n't hot when it leaves the cup ; 
When stray dogs coming along the street 
Never stand for a second on all four feet ; 
When little boys cry if they have to be out, 
And are heard for a full half-mile if they shout; 

When the day is as clear as the thoughts that fled 

Out into the world from Shakspere's head ; 

When the air about seems as still as a rock, 

And a sudden noise is a sudden shock, 

And the earth seems deserted, lonely, and old — 

You are pretty sure that it's pretty cold ! 


By Huck Finn. Edited by Mark Twain. 

Chapter I. 

Do you reckon Tom Sawyer was satisfied 
after all them adventures? I mean the adven- 
tures we had down the river, and the time we 
set the darky Jim free and Tom got shot in 
the leg. No, he was n't. It only just p'isoned 
him for more. That was all the effect it had. 
You see, when we three came back up the 
river in glory, as you may say, from that long 
travel, and the village received us with a torch- 
light procession and speeches, and everybody 
hurrah'd and shouted, it made us heroes, and 
that was what Tom Sawyer had always been 
hankering to be. 

For a while he was satisfied. Everybody 
made much of him, and he tilted up his nose 
and stepped around the town as though he 
owned it. Some called him Tom Sawyer the 
Traveler, and that just swelled him up fit to 
bust. You see he laid over me and Jim con- 
siderable, because we only went down the river 
on a raft and came back by the steamboat, but 
Tom went by the steamboat both ways. The 
boys envied me and Jim a good deal, but land ! 
they just knuckled to the dirt before TOM. 

Well, I don't know ; maybe he might have 
been satisfied if it had n't been for old Nat 
Parsons, which was postmaster, and powerful 
long and slim, and kind o' good-hearted and 
silly, and bald-headed, on account of his age, 
and about the talkiest old cretur I ever see. 
For as much as thirty years he 'd been the only 
man in the village that had a reputation — I 
mean a reputation for being a traveler, and of 
course he was mortal proud of it, and it was 
reckoned that in the course of that thirty years 
he had told about that journey over a million 
times and enjoyed it every time. And now 
comes along a boy not quite fifteen, and sets 
everybody admiring and gawking over his 

travels, and it just give the poor old man the 
high strikes. It made him sick to listen to 
Tom, and hear the people say " My land ! " 
" Did you ever ! " " My goodness sakes alive!" 
and all such things ; but he could n't pull away 
from it, any more than a fly that 's got its hind 
leg fast in the molasses. And always when 
Tom come to a rest, the poor old cretur would 
chip in on his same old travels and work them 
for all they were worth, but they were pretty 
faded, and did n't go for much, and it was 
pitiful to see. And then Tom would take 
another innings, and then the old man again — 
and so on, and so on, for an hour and more, 
each trying to beat out the other. 

You see, Parsons' travels happened like this : 
When he first got to be postmaster and was 
green in the business, there come a letter for 
somebody he did n't know, and there was n't 
any such person in the village. Well, he did n't 
know what to do, nor how to act, and there 
the letter stayed and stayed, week in and week 
out, till the bare sight of it give him a con- 
niption. The postage was n't paid on it, and 
that was another thing to worry about. There 
was n't any way to collect that ten cents, and 
he reckon'd the Gov'ment would hold him 
responsible for it and maybe turn him out 
besides, when they found he had n't collected 
it. Well, at last he could n't stand it any 
longer. He could n't sleep nights, he could n't 
eat, he was thinned down to a shadder, yet he 
da'sn't ask anybody's advice, for the very person 
he asked for advice might go back on him and 
let the Gov'ment know about the letter. He 
had the letter buried under the floor, but that 
did no good; if he happened to see a person 
standing over the place it 'd give him the cold 
shivers, and loaded him up with suspicions, and 
he would sit up that night till the town was as 
still and dark, and then he would sneak there 



and get it out and bury it in another place. 
Of course people got to avoiding him and 
shaking their heads and whispering, because, 
the way he was looking and acting, they 
judged he had killed somebody or done 
something terrible, they did n't know what, 
and if he had been a stranger they would 've 
lynched him. 

Well, as I was saying, it got so he could n't 
stand it any longer ; so he made up his mind to 
pull out for Washington, and just go to the 
President of the United States and make a 
clean breast of the whole thing, not keeping 
back an atom, and then fetch the letter out and 
lay it before the whole Gov'ment, and say, 
" Now, there she is — do with me what you 're a 
mind to; though as heaven is my judge I am an 
innocent man and not deserving of the full 

steamboating, and some stage-coaching, but all 
the rest of the way was horseback, and it took 
him three weeks to get to Washington. He 
saw lots of land and lots of villages and four 
cities. He was gone 'most eight weeks, and 
there never was such a proud man in the village 
as when he got back. His travels made him 
the greatest man in all that region, and the 
most talked about; and people come from as 
much as thirty miles back in the country, and 
from over in the Illinois bottoms, too, just to 
look at him — and there they 'd stand and 
gawk, and he 'd gabble. You never see any- 
thing like it. 

Well, there was n't any way, now, to settle 
which was the greatest traveler; some said it 
was Nat, some said it was Tom. Everybody 
allowed that Nat had seen the most longitude, 


(SEE PAGE 23.) 

penalties of the law and leaving behind me a but they had to give in that whatever Tom was 

family that must starve and yet had n't had a short in longitude he had made up in latitude 

thing to do with it, which is the whole truth and climate. It was about a stand-off; so both 

and I can swear to it." of them had to whoop up their dangerous ad- 

So he did it. He had a little wee bit of ventures, and try to get ahead that way. That 



bullet-wound in Tom's leg was a tough thing 
for Nat Parsons to buck against, but he bucked 
the best he could; and at a disadvantage, too, 
for Tom did n't set still as he 'd orter done, to 
be fair, but always got up and sauntered around 
and worked his limp while Nat was painting up 
the adventure that he had in Washington; for 
Tom never let go that limp when his leg got 
well, but practised it nights at home, and kept 
it good as new right along. 

Nat's adventure was like this; I don't know 
how true it is; maybe he got it out of a paper, 
or somewhere, but I will say this for him, that 
he did know how to tell it. He could make 
anybody's flesh crawl, and he 'd turn pale and 
hold his breath when he told it, and sometimes 
women and girls got so faint they could n't stick 
it out. Well, it was this way, as near as I can 
remember : 

He come a-loping into Washington, and put 
up his horse and shoved out to the President's 
house with his letter, and they told him the 
President was up to the Capitol, and just going 
to start for Philadelphia — not a minute to lose 
if he wanted to catch him. Nat 'most dropped, 
it made him so sick. His horse was put up, 
and he did n't know what to do. But just then 
along comes a darky driving an old ramshackly 
hack, and he see his chance. He rushes out 
and shouts : " A half a dollar if you git me to 
the Capitol in half an hour, and a quarter extra 
if you do it in twenty minutes ! " 

" Done ! " says the darky. 

Nat he jumped in and slammed the door, 
and away they went a-ripping and a-tearing 
over the roughest road a body ever see, and the 
racket of it was something awful. Nat passed 
his arms through the loops and hung on for life 
and death, but pretty soon the hack hit a rock 
and flew up in the air, and the bottom fell out, 
and when it come down Nat's feet was on the 
ground, and he see he was in the most desperate 
clanger if he could n't keep up with the hack. 
He was horrible scared, but he laid into his 
work for all he was worth, and hung tight to 
the arm-loops and made his legs fairly fly. He 
yelled and shouted to the driver to stop, and so 
did the crowds along the street, for they could 
see his legs spinning along under the coach, and 
his head and shoulders bobbing inside, through 

the windows, and he was in awful danger; but 
the more they all shouted the more the nigger 
whooped and yelled and lashed the horses and 
shouted, " Don't you fret, I 's gwine to git you 
dah in time, boss; I 's gwine to do it, sho' !" 
for you see he thought they were all hurrying 
him up, and of course he could n't hear any- 
thing for the racket he was making. And so 
they went ripping along, and everybody just 
petrified to see it; and when they got to the 
Capitol at last it was the quickest trip that ever 
was made, and everybody said so. The horses 
laid down, and Nat dropped, all tuckered out, 
and he was all dust and rags and barefooted ; 
but he was in time and just in time, and caught 
the President and give him the letter, and 
everything was all right, and the President give 
him a free pardon on the spot, and Nat give the 
nigger two extra quarters instead of one be- 
cause he could see that if he had n't had the 
hack he would n't 'a' got there in time, nor any- 
where near it. 

It was a powerful good adventure, and Tom 
Sawyer had to work his bullet-wound mighty 
lively to hold his own against it. 

Well, by and by Tom's glory got to paling 
down gradu'ly, on account of other things 
turning up for the people to talk about — first 
a horse-race, and on top of that a house afire, 
and on top of that the circus, and on top of 
that the eclipse ; and that started a revival, 
same as it always does, and by that time there 
was n't any more talk about Tom, so to speak, 
and you never see a person so sick and dis- 

Pretty soon he got to worrying and fretting 
right along day in and day out, and when I 
asked him what was he in such a state about, 
he said it 'most broke his heart to think how 
time was slipping away, and him getting older 
and older, and no wars breaking out and no 
way of making a name for himself that he could 
see. Now that is the way boys is always think- 
ing, but he was the first one I ever heard come 
out and say it. 

So then he set to work to get up a plan to 
make him celebrated; and pretty soon he struck 
it, and offered to take me and Jim in. Tom 
Sawyer was always free and generous that 
way. There 's a plenty of boys that 's mighty 

good and friendly when yon 've got a good 
thing, but when a good thing happens to come 
their way they don't say a word to you, and 
try to hog it all. That war n't ever Tom Saw- 
yer's way, I can say that for him. There 's 
plenty of boys that will come hankering and 
groveling around you when you 've got an 
apple, and beg the core off of you ; but when 
they 've got one, and you beg for the core and 
remind them how you give them a core one 
time, they say thank you 'most to death, but 
there ain't a-going to be no core. But I notice 
they always git come up with ; all you got to 
do is to wait. 

Well, we went out in the woods on the hill, 
and Tom told us what it was. It was a 

"What 's a crusade?" I says. 

He looked scornful the way he 's always 
done when he was ashamed of a person, and 
says — 

"Huck Finn, do you mean to tell me you 
don't know what a crusade is ? " 




" No," says I, " I don't. And I don't care 
to, nuther. I 've lived till now and done 
without it, and had my health, too. But as 
soon as you tell me, I '11 know, and" that 's 
soon enough. I don't see any use in finding 
out things and clogging up my head with them 
when I may n't ever have any occasion to use 
'em. There was Lance Williams, he learned 
how to talk Choctaw here till one come and 
dug his grave for him. Now, then, what 's 
a crusade ? But I can tell you one thing before 
you begin ; if it 's a patent-right, there 's no 
money in it. Bill Thompson he — " 

" Patent-right ! " says he. " I never see such 
an idiot. Why, a crusade is a kind of war." 

I thought he must be losing his mind. But 
no, he was in real earnest, and went right on, 
perfectly ca'm : 

"A crusade is a war to recover the Holy 
Land from the paynim." 

" Which Holy Land ? " 

" Why, the Holy Land — there ain't but one." 

" What do we want of it ? " 

" Why, can't you understand ? It 's in the 
hands of the paynim, and it 's our duty to take 
it away from them." 

" How did we come to let them git hold 
of it?" 

" We did n't come to let them git hold of it. 
They always had it." 

" Why, Tom, then it must belong to them, 
don't it ? " 

" Why of course it does. Who said it 
did n't?" 




I studied over it, but could n't seem to git 
at the right of it, no way. I says : 

" It 's too many for me, Tom Sawyer. If I 
had a farm and it was mine, and another per- 
son wanted it, would it be right for him to — " 

" Oh, shucks ! you don't know enough to 
come in when it rains, Huck Finn. It ain't 
a farm, it 's entirely different. You see, it 's 
like this. They own the land, just the mere 
land, and that 's all they do own ; but it was 
our folks, our Jews and Christians, that made 
it holy, and so they have n't any business to be 
there defiling it. It 's a shame, and we ought 
not to stand it a minute. We ought to march 
against them and take it away from them." 

" Why, it does seem to me it 's the most 
mixed-up thing I ever see ! Now if I had a 
farm and another person — " 

" Don't I tell you it has n't got anything to 
do with farming ? Farming is business, just 
common low-down business ; that 's all it is, 
it 's all you can say for it ; but this is higher, 
this is religious, and totally different." 

" Religious to go and take the land away 
from people that owns it ? " 

" Certainly ; it 's always been considered so." 

Jim he shook his head, and says : 

" Mars Tom, I reckon dey 's a mistake about 
it somers — dey mos' sholy is. I 's religious 
myself, en I knows plenty religious people, 
but I hain't run across none dat acts like 

It made Tom hot, and he says : 

" Well, it 's enough to make a body sick, 
such mullet-headed ignorance ! If either of 
you 'd read anything about history, you 'd 
know that Richard Cur de Loon, and the 
Pope, and Godfrey de Bulleyn, and lots more 
of the most noble-hearted and pious people in 
the world, hacked and hammered at the pay- 
nims for more than two hundred years trying 
to take their land away from them, and swum 
neck-deep in blood the whole time — and yet 
here 's a couple of sap-headed country yahoos 
out in the backwoods of Missouri, setting 
themselves up to know more about the rights 
and wrongs of it than they did ! Talk about 
cheek ! " 

Well, of course, that put a more different 
light on it, and me and Jim felt pretty cheap 

and ignorant, and wished we had n't been 
quite so chipper. I could n't say nothing, and 
Jim he could n't for a while; then he says: 

" Well, den, I reckon it 's all right ; beca'se ef 
dey did n't know, dey ain't no use for po' 
ignorant folks like us to be trying to know ; 
en so, ef it 's our duty, we got to go en tackle 
it en do de bes' we can. Same time, I feel as 
sorry for dem paynims as Mars Tom. De 
hard part gwine to be to kill folks dat a body 
hain't 'quainted wid and dat hain't done him 
no harm. Dat 's it, you see. Ef we wuz to go 
'mongst 'em, jist we three, en say we 's hungry, 
en ast 'em for a bite to eat, why, maybe dey 's 
jist like yuther people. Don't you reckon dey 
is ? Why, dey 'd give it, I know dey would, 
en den — " 

" Then what ? " 

" Well, Mars Tom, my idea is like dis. It 
ain't no use, we can't kill dem po' strangers dat 
ain't doin' us no harm, till we 've had practice 
— I knows it perfectly well, Mars Tom — 'deed 
I knows it perfectly well. But ef we takes a' 
ax or two, jist you en me en Huck, en slips 
acrost de river to-night arter de moon 's gone 
down, en kills dat sick fam'ly dat 's over on 
the Sny, en burns dey house down, en — " 

" Oh, you make me tired ! " says Tom. " I 
don't want to argue any more with people like 
you and Huck Finn, that 's always wandering 
from the subject, and ain't got any more sense 
than to try to reason out a thing that 's pure 
theology by the laws that protect real estate ! " 

Now that 's just where Tom Sawyer war n't 
fair. Jim did n't mean no harm, and I did n't 
mean no harm. We knowed well enough that 
he was right and we was wrong, and all we 
was after was to get at the how of it, and that 
was all; and the only reason he could n't ex- 
plain it so we could understand it was because 
we was ignorant — yes, and pretty dull, too, I 
ain't denying that ; but, land ! that ain't no 
crime, I should think. 

But he would n't hear no more about it — 
just said if we had tackled the thing in the 
proper spirit, he would 'a' raised a couple of 
thousand knights and put them in steel armor 
from head to heel, and made me a lieutenant and 
Jim a sutler, and took the command himself 
and brushed the whole paynim outfit into the 

i8 9 3-] 



sea like flies and come back across the world 
in a glory like sunset. But he said we did n't 
know enough to take the chance when we had 
it, and he would n't ever offer it again. And he 
did n't. When he once got set, you could n't 
budge him. 

But I did n't care much. I am peaceable, 
and don't get up rows with people that ain't 

Chapter II. 

Well, Tom got up one thing after another, 
but they all had tender spots about 'em some- 
wheres, and he had to shove 'em aside. So at 
last he was about in despair. Then the St. 
Louis papers begun to talk a good deal about 
the balloon that was going to sail to Europe, 

'he said he would sail his balloon around the globe, just to show what he could do." (see page 28.) 

doing nothing to me. I allowed if the paynim 
was satisfied I was, and we would let it stand 
at that. 

Now Tom he got all that notion out of 
Walter Scott's book, which he was always 
reading. And it was a wild notion, because 
in my opinion he never could 've raised the 
men, and if he did, as like as not he would 've 
got licked. I took the books and read all 
about it, and as near as I could make it out, 
most of the folks that shook farming to go 
crusading had a mighty rocky time of it. 
Vol. XXL— 4. 

and Tom sort of thought he wanted to go down 
and see what it looked like, but could n't make 
up his mind. But the papers went on talking, 
and so he allowed that maybe if he did n't gu 
he might n't ever have another chance to see a 
balloon ; and next, he found out that Nat Par- 
sons was going down to see it, and that decided 
him, of course. He was n't going to have Nat 
Parsons coming back bragging about seeing the 
balloon, and him having to listen to it and keep 
quiet. So he wanted me and Jim to go too, 
and we went. 




It was a noble big balloon, and had wings 
and fans and all sorts of things, and was n't like 
any balloon you see in pictures. It was away 
out toward the edge of town, in a vacant lot, 
corner of Twelfth street ; and there was a big 
crowd around it, making fun of it, and making 
fun of the man, — a lean pale feller with that 
soft kind of moonlight in his eyes, you know, — 
and they kept saying it would n't go. It made 
him hot to hear them, and he would turn on 
them and shake his fist and say they was ani- 
mals and blind, but some day they would find 
they had stood face to face with one of the 
men that lifts up nations and makes civiliza- 
tions, and was too dull to know it; and right 
here on this spot their own children and grand- 
children would build a monument to him that 
would outlast a thousand years, but his name 
would outlast the monument. And then the 
crowd would burst out in a laugh again, and 
yell at him, and ask him what was his name be- 
fore he was married, and what he would take to 
not do it, and what was his sister's cat's grand- 
mother's name, and all the things that a crowd 
says when they 've got hold of a feller that they 
see they can plague. Well, some things they said 
was funny, — yes, and mighty witty too, I ain't 
denying that, — but all the same it war n't fair 
nor brave, all them people pitching on one, and 
they so glib and sharp, and him without any gift 
of talk to answer back with. But, good land! 
what did he want to sass back for ? You see, it 
could n't do him no good, and it was just nuts 
for them. They had 'him, you know. But that 
was his way. I reckon he could n't help it ; he 
was made so, I judge. He was a good-enough 
sort of cretur, and had n't no harm in him, and 
was just a genius, as the papers said, which 
was n't his fault. We can't all be sound : we 've 
got to be the way we 're made. As near as I 
can make out, geniuses think they know it all, 
and so they won't take people's advice, but 
always go their own way, which makes every- 
body forsake them and despise them, and that 
is perfectly natural. If they was humbler, and 
listened and tried to learn, it would be better 
for them. 

The part the professor was in was like a boat, 
and was big and roomy, and had water-tight 
lockers around the inside to keep all sorts of 

things in, and a body could sit on them, and 
make beds on them, too. We went aboard, 
and there was twenty people there, snooping 
around and examining, and old Nat Parsons 
was there, too. The professor kept fussing 
around, getting ready, and the people went 
ashore, drifting out one at a time, and old Nat 
he was the last. Of course it would n't do to 
let him go out behind us. We must n't budge 
till he was gone, so we could be last ourselves. 

But he was gone now, so it was time for us 
to follow. I heard a big shout, and turned 
around — the city was dropping from under us 
like a shot! It made me sick all through, I was 
so scared. Jim turned gray and could n't say a 
word, and Tom did n't say nothing, but looked 
excited. The city went on dropping down, and 
down, and down; but we did n't seem to be 
doing nothing but just hang in the air and 
stand still. The houses got smaller and smaller, 
and the city pulled itself together, closer and 
closer, and the men and wagons got to looking 
like ants and bugs crawling around, and the 
streets like threads and cracks ; and then it all 
kind of melted together, and there was n't any 
city any more : it was only a big scar on the 
earth, and it seemed to me a body could see up 
the river and down the river about a thousand 
miles, though of course it was n't so much. By 
and by the earth was a ball — just a round ball, 
of a dull color, with shiny stripes wriggling and 
winding around over it, which was rivers. The 
Widder Douglas always told me the earth was 
round like a ball, but I never took any stock in 
a lot of them superstitions o' hers, and of course 
I paid no attention to that one, because I could 
see myself that the world was the shape of a 
plate, and flat. I used to go up on the hill, and 
take a look around and prove it for myself, be- 
cause I reckon the best way to get a sure thing 
on a fact is to go and examine for yourself, and 
not take anybody's say-so. But I had to give 
in, now, that the widder was right. That is, she 
was right as to the rest of the world, but she 
war n't right about the part our village is in ; 
that part is the shape of a plate, and flat, I take 
my oath ! 

The professor had been quiet all this time, as if 
he was asleep; but he broke loose now, and he 
was mighty bitter. He says something like this : 




" Idiots ! They said it would n't go ; and 
they wanted to examine it, and spy around and 
get the secret of it out of me. But I beat them. 
Nobody knows the secret but me. Nobody 
knows what makes it move but me ; and it 's 
a new power — a new power, and a thousand 
times the strongest in the earth ! Steam 's fool- 
ishness to it ! They said I could n't go to 
Europe. To Europe ! Why, there 's power 
aboard to last five years, and feed for three 
months. They are fools ! What do they know 
about it ? Yes, and they said my air-ship was 
flimsy. Why, she 's good for fifty years ! I can 


sail the skies all my life if I want to, and steer 
where I please, though they laughed at that, 
and said I could n't. Could n't steer ! Come 
here, boy ; we '11 see. You press these buttons 
as I tell you." 

He made Tom steer the ship all about and 
every which way, and learnt him the whole 
thing in nearly no time ; and Tom said it was 

perfectly easy. He made him fetch the ship 
down 'most to the earth, and had him spin her 
along so close to the Illinois prairies that a 
body could talk to the farmers, and hear every- 
thing they said perfectly plain; and he flung 
out printed bills to them that told about the 
balloon, and said it was going to Europe. Tom 
got so he could steer straight for a tree till he 
got nearly to it, and then dart up and skin 
right along over the top of it. Yes, and he 
showed Tom how to land her ; and he done 
it first-rate, too, and set her down in the prairies 
as soft as wool. But the minute we started to 
skip out the Professor 
says, " No, you don't ! " 
and shot her up in the 
air again. It was aw- 
ful. I begun to beg, 
and so did Jim ; but 
it only give his temper 
a rise, and he begun to 
rage around and look 
wild out of his eyes, 
and I was scared of 

Well, then he got on 
to his troubles again, 
and mourned and 
grumbled about the 
way he was treated, 
and could n't seem to 
git over it, and especi- 
ally people's saying his 
ship was flimsy. He 
scoffed at that, and at 
their saying she war n't 
simple and would be 
always getting out of 
order. Get out of 
order ! That graveled 
him ; he said that she 
could n't any more get 
out of order than the solar sister. 

He got worse and worse, and I never see 
a person take on so. It give me the cold 
shivers to see him, and so it did Jim. By and 
by he got to yelling and screaming, and then 
he swore the world should n't ever have his 
secret at all now, it had treated him so mean. 
He said he would sail his balloon around the 




globe just to show what he could do, and then 
he would sink it in the sea, and sink us all 
along with it, too. Well, it was the awfullest 
fix to be in, and here was night coming on ! 

He give us something to eat, and made us 
go to the other end of the boat, and he laid 
down on a locker, where he could boss all the 
works, and put his old pepper-box revolver un- 
der his head, and said if anybody come fooling 
around there trying to land her, he would kill 

We set scrunched up together, and thought 
considerable, but did n't say much — only just 
a word once in a while when a bod)' had to 
say something or bust, we was so scared and 
worried. The night dragged along slow and 
lonesome. We was pretty low down, and the 
moonshine made everything soft and pretty, 
and the farm-houses looked snug and homeful, 
and we could hear the farm sounds, and wished 
we could be down there ; but, laws ! we just 
slipped along over them like a ghost, and never 
left a track. 

Away in the night, when all the sounds was 
late sounds, and the air had a late feel, and a 
late smell, too. — about a two-o'clock feel, as 
near as I could make out, — Tom said the Pro- 
fessor was so quiet this time he must be asleep, 
and we 'd better — 

" Better what ? " I says in a whisper, and 
feeling sick all over, because I knowed what he 
was thinking about. 

" Better slip back there and tie him, and 
land the ship," he says. 

I says: "No, sir! Don't you budge, Tom 

And Jim — well, Jim was kind o' gasping, 
he was so scared. He says : 

" Oh, Mars Tom, don't ! Ef you teches him, 
we 's gone — we 's gone sho' ! I ain't gwine 
anear him, not for nothin' in dis worl'. Mars 
Tom, he 's plumb crazy." 

Tom whispers and says : " That 's why 
we 've got to do something. If he was n't 
crazy I would n't give shucks to be any- 
where but here; you could n't hire me to 
get out, — now that I 've got used to this bal- 
loon and over the scare of being cut loose 
from the solid ground, — if he was in his right 
mind. But it 's no good politics, sailing around 

like this with a person that 's out of his head, 
and says he 's going round the world and then 
drown us all. We 've got to do something, I 
tell you, and do it before he wakes up, too, 
or we may n't ever get another chance. 
Come ! " 

But it made us turn cold and creepy just to 
think of it, and we said we would n't budge. 
So Tom was for slipping back there by himself 
to see if he could n't get at the steering-gear and 
land the ship. We begged and begged him not 
to, but it war n't no use; so he got down on his 
hands and knees, and begun to crawl an inch 
at a time, we a-holding our breath and watch- 
ing. After he got to the middle of the boat 
he crept slower than ever, and it did seem like 
years to me. But at last we see him get to the 
Professor's head, and sort of raise up soft and 
look a good spell in his face and listen. Then 
we see him begin to inch along again toward 
the Professor's feet where the steering-buttons 
was. Well, he got there all safe, and was 
reaching slow and steady toward the buttons, 
but he knocked down something that made a 
noise, and we see him slump down flat an' soft 
in the bottom, and lay still. The Professor 
stirred, and says, " What 's that ? " But every- 
body kept dead still and quiet, and he begun 
to mutter and mumble and nestle, like a person 
that 's going to wake up, and I thought I was 
going to die, I was so worried and scared. 

Then a cloud slid over the moon, and I 
'most cried, I was so glad. She buried her- 
self deeper and deeper into the cloud, and it 
got so dark we could n't see Tom. Then it 
began to sprinkle rain, and we could hear the 
Professor fussing at his ropes and things and 
abusing the weather. We was afraid every 
minute he would touch Tom, and then we 
would be goners, and no help ; but Tom was 
already on his way back, and when we felt his 
hands on our knees my breath stopped sudden, 
and my heart fell down 'mongst my other works, 
because I could n't tell in the dark but it might 
be the Professor, which I thought it was. 

Dear! I was so glad to have him back that 
I was just as near happy as a person could be 
that was up in the air that way with a de- 
ranged man. You can't land a balloon in the 
dark, and so I hoped it would keep on raining, 

i8 93 .) 


for I did n't want Tom to go meddling any 
more and make us so awful uncomfortable. 
Well, I got my wish. It drizzled and drizzled 
along the rest of the night, which was n't long, 

gray and pretty, and the forests and fields so 
good to see again, and the horses and cattle 
standing sober and thinking. Next, the sun 
come a-blazing up gay and splendid, and then 

though it did seem so ; and at daybreak it we began to feel rusty and stretchy, and first 
cleared, and the world looked mighty soft and we knowed we was all asleep. 

( To be continued. ) 

Oft MD$C 



Virginia Woodward Cloud. 

Over the bridge to the King's highway The friar with his book, and the jester with 

They throng and they jostle, young and old, his bells, 

With bustle and with hurry ; for 't is market- The vender with red apples for his stands, 

day, The maid who buys, and the master who sells, 

And the mist from the river riseth cold. And the little lass with blossoms in her hands. 

Over the bridge they speed, the noisy folk, Oh, the violets smile like her sweet blue 

With chaises, with barrows, and with carts ; eyes, 

The 'prentice in his cap, and the dame in her As dawn on the river stealeth down; 

cloak, But nobody heeds them and nobody buys, 

And the baker with his fresh-made tarts ; For 't is market-day in yonder busy town. 




Over the bridge they have sped them one and Will they stop ? Nay, nay ! they are grand, 

all, they are great, 

She watches, and she nods, and under- She nods, and she smiles, and understands ; 

stands; They have no time, while the court doth 

For they are so great and she so small — yonder wait, 

This little lass with blossoms in her For a little lass with blossoms in her hands, 
hands ! 


Over the bridge to the King's 
They are riding in the noontide 
The lords and the ladies, the courtiers gay, 
A-gleaming and a-glancing every one. 

Oh, they flash and they dart past her sweet She knows how the page with his lagging lit- 

blue eyes, tie feet 

The merry, the courtly, and the sage ; Would fain for a wee rest stay ; 

She sees the lance that lights, and the feather, They have journeyed so far, they have ridden 

too, that flies, so fleet, 

And the lagging of the little foot-page. The noble, the kingly, and the gay ! 


Then swiftly the leaves of her vio- 
lets blue 
Are brushing his wan, pale 
face, — 
Oh, my blithe little lass, the court 
hath need of you, 
Of the gift, and the giver, and 
the grace ! 

Just a pause, just a smile from ,i< 
her bonny sweet eyes — 
And the river, how it laugheth 
to the sands; 
For the tired little page like a 
winged bird he flies 
A-bearing dewy blossoms in his 

Over the bridge in the noontide 
They have sped like an arrow 
from its bow ; 
The little lass a-shading her eyes 
for the sight, 
The little page's plume sweep- 
ing low. 






Bright curly heads pop in all day 
To ask, " Is Mother here ? " 
I Then give an eager glance 


(A Thanksgiving Story.') 

By Susan Coolidge. 

It was the day before Thanksgiving, but the 
warmth of a late Indian summer lay over the 
world, and tempered the autumn chill into mild- 
ness more like early October than late Novem- 
ber. Elsie Thayer, driving her village cart 
rapidly through the " Long Woods," caught 
herself vaguely wondering why the grass was 
not greener, and what should set the leaves to 
tumbling off the trees in such an unsummer- 
like fashion, — then smiled at herself for being 
so forgetful. 

The cart was packed full ; for, besides Elsie 
herself, it held a bag of sweet potatoes, a siza- 
ble bundle or two, and a large market-basket 
from which protruded the unmistakable legs 
of a turkey, not to mention a choice smaller 
basket covered with a napkin. All these were 
going to the little farmstead in which dwelt 
Mrs. Ann Sparrow, Elsie's nurse in childhood, 
and the most faithful and kindly of friends ever 
since. Elsie always made sure that " Nursey" 
had a good Thanksgiving dinner, and generally 
carried it herself. 

The day was so delightful that it seemed al- 
most a pity that the pony should trot so fast. 
One would willingly have gone slowly, tasting 
drop by drop, as it were, the lovely sunshine 
filtering through the yellow beech boughs, the 
unexpected warmth, and the balmy spice of the 
air, which had in it a tinge of smoky haze. But 
the day before Thanksgiving is sure to be a 
busy one with New England folk ; Elsie had 
other tasks awaiting her, and she knew that 
Nursey would not be- content with a short visit. 

" Hurry up, little Jack," she said. " You 
shall have a long rest presently, if you are a 
good boy, and some nice fresh grass — if I can 
find any; anyway, a little drink of water. So 
make haste." 

Jack made haste. The yellow wheels of the 
cart spun in and out of the shadow like circles 
Vol. XXI.— 5. 3 

of gleaming sun. When the two miles were 
achieved, and the little clearing came into 
view, Elsie slackened her pace : she wanted to 
take Nursey by surprise. Driving straight to 
a small open shed, she deftly unharnessed the 
pony, tied him with a liberal allowance of 
halter, hung up the harness, and wheeled the 
cart away from his heels, all with the ease 
which is bom of practice. She then gathered 
a lapful of brown but still nourishing grasses 
for Jack, and was about to lift the parcels 
from the wagon when she was espied by Mrs. 

Out she came, hurrying and flushed with 
pleasure, — the dearest old woman, with pink, 
wrinkled cheeks like a perfectly baked apple, 
and a voice which still retained its pleasant 
English tones, after sixty long years in America. 

" Well, Missy dear, so it 's you. I made 
sure you 'd come, and had been watching all 
the morning ; but somehow I missed you when 
you drove up, and it was just by haccident like 
that I looked out of window and see you in 
the shed. You 're looking well, Missy. That 
school has n't hurt you a bit. Just the same 
nice color in your cheeks as ever. I was that 
troubled when I heard you wa'n't coming home 
last summer, for I thought maybe you was ill ; 
but your mother she said 't was all right and 
just for your pleasure, and I see it was so. 
Why," — her voice changing to consterna- 
tion, — " if you have n't unharnessed the horse ! 
Now, Missy, how came you to do that? You 
forgot there was n't no one about but me. 
Who 's to put him in for you, I wonder ? " 

" Oh, I don't want any one. I can harness 
the pony myself." 

" Oh, Missy, dear, you must n't do that. I 
could n't let you. It 's real hard to harness 
a horse. You 'd make some mistake, and then 
there 'd be a haccident." 




( 1^> \ 

" Nonsense, Nursey ! I 've harnessed Jack 
once this morning already ; it 's just as easy to 
do it twice. I 'm a member of a Harnessing 
Class, I 'd have you to know; and, what 's more, 
I took the prize ! " 

" Now, Missy dear, whatever do you mean 
by that ? Young ladies learn to harness ! I 
never heard of such a thing in my life ! In my 
young time in England, they learned globes and 
langwidges, and, it might be, 
to paint in oils and such, 
and make nice things 
in chenille." 

" I '11 tell you 
all about it ; but 
first let us carry 
these things up to 
the house. Here 's 
your Thanksgiv- 
ing turkey, Nursey, 
— with Mother's 
live. Papa sent 
you the sweet 
potatoes and the 
cranberries, and 
the oranges and 
figs and the pump- 
kin-pie are from 
me. I made the 
pie myself. That 's 
another of the use- 
ful things that I 
learned to do at 
my school." 

" The master is very kind, Missy ; and so is 
your mother; and I 'm thankful to you all. But 
that 's a queer school of yours, it seems to me. 
For my part, I never heard of young ladies 
learning such things as cooking and harnessing 
at boarding-schools." 

' : Oh, we learn arts and languages, too, — 
that part of our education is n't neglected. 
Now, Nursey, we '11 put these things in your 
buttery, and you shall give me a glass of nice 
cold milk, and while I drink it I '11 tell you 
about Rosemary Hall — that 's the name of the 
school, you know ; and it 's the dearest, nicest 
place you can think of." 

" Very likely, Miss Elsie," in an unconvinced 
tone ; " but still I don't see any reason why 

they should set you to making pies and har- 
nessing horses." 

" Oh, that 's just at odd times, by way of 
fun and pleasure ; it is n't lessons, you know. 
You see, Mrs. Thanet — that 's a rich lady who 
lives close by, and is a sort of fairy godmother 
to us girls — has a great notion about practical 
education. It was she who got up the Har- 
nessing Class and the Model Kitchen. It 's the 
dearest little place you ever saw, Nursey, with 
a perfect stove, and shelves, and books for 
everything; and such bright tins, and the 
prettiest of old-fashioned crockery ! It 's 
just like a picture. We girls were always 
squabbling over whose turn should come 
first. You can't think how much I 
learned there, Nursey! I learned to 
make a pie, and clear out a grate, 
and scour saucepans, and" — 
* counting on her fingers — " to 
make bread, rolls, minute-bis- 
cuit, coffee — delicious coffee, 
Nursey ! — good 
soup, creamed oys- 
ters, and pumpkin- 
pies and apple- 
pies! Just wait and 
you shall see." 

She jumped up, 
ran into the but- 
tery, and soon re- 
turned carrying a 
triangle of pie on 
a plate. 
" It is n't Thanksgiving yet, I know ; but 
there is no law against eating pumpkin-pie the 
day before, so please, Nursey, taste this and see 
if you don't call it good. Papa says it makes 
him think of his mother's pies when he was a 
little boy." 

" Indeed and it is good, Missy dear; and I 
won't deny but cooking may be well for you to 
know; but for that other — the harnessing class, 
as you call it, — I don't see the sense of that at 
all, Missy." 

" Oh, Nursey, indeed there is a great deal of 
sense in it. Mrs. Thanet says it might easily 
happen, in the country especially, — if any one 
was hurt or taken very ill, you know, — that life 
might depend upon a girl's knowing how to 





harness. She had a man teach us, and we 
practised and practised, and at the end of the 
term there was an exhibition, with a prize for 
the girl who could harness and unharness quick- 
est, and I won it ! See, here it is." 

She held out a slim brown hand, and dis- 
played a narrow gold bangle, on which was 
engraved in minute letters, " What is worth 
doing at all, is worth doing well." 

" Is n't it pretty ? " she asked. 

" Yes," doubtfully ; " the bracelet is pretty 
enough, Missy ; but I can't quite like what it 
stands for. It don't seem ladylike for you to 
be knowing about harnesses and such things." 

" Oh, Nursey dear, what nonsense ! " 

There were things to be done after she got 
home, but Elsie could not hurry her visit. 
Jack consumed his grass heap, and then stood 
sleepily blinking at the flies for a long hour 
before his young mistress jumped up. 

" Now, I must go," she cried. " Come out 
and see me harness up, Nursey." 

It was swiftly and skilfully done, but still 
Nurse Sparrow shook her head. 

" I don't like it ! " she insisted. " ' A horse 
shall be a vain thing for safety' — that 's in 
Holy Writ." 

" You are an obstinate old dear," said Elsie, 
good-humoredly. " Wait till you 're ill some 
day, and I go for the doctor. Then you '11 
realize the advantage of practical education. 
What a queer smell of smoke there is, Nur- 
sey ! " gathering up her reins. 

"Yes; the woods has been on fire for quite 
a spell, back on the other side of Bald Top. 
You can smell the smoke most of the time. 
Seems to me it 's stronger than usual, to- 

" You don't think there is any danger of its 
coming this way, do you ? " 

" Oh, no ! " contentedly. " I don't suppose 
it could come so far as this." 

" But why not ? " thought Elsie to herself as 
she drove rapidly back. "If the wind were 
right for it, why should n't it come this way ? 
Fires travel much farther than that on the 
prairies — and they go very fast, too. I never 
did like having Nursey all alone by herself on 
that farm." 

She reached home to find things in unex- 

pected confusion. Her father had been called 
away for the night by a telegram, and her 
mother — on this of all days — had gone to bed 
disabled with a bad headache. There was 
much to be done, and Elsie flung herself into 
the breach and did it, too busy to think again 
of Nurse Sparrow and the fire, until, toward 
nightfall, she noted that the wind had changed 
and was blowing straight from Bald Top, bring- 
ing with it an increase of smoke. 

She ran out to consult the hired man before 
he went home for the night, and to ask if he 
thought there was any danger of the fire reach- 
ing the Long Woods. He " guessed " not. 

" These fires get going quite often on to the 
other side of Bald Top, but there ain't none 
of 'em come over this way, and 't ain't likely 
they ever will. I guess Mis' Sparrow 's safe 
enough. You need n't worry, Miss Elsie." 

In spite of this comforting assurance, Elsie 
did worry. She looked out of her west win- 
dow the last thing before going to bed ; and 
when, at two in the morning, she woke with 
a sudden start, her first impulse was to run to 
the window again. Then she gave an excla- 
mation, and her heart stood still with fear; for 
the southern slopes of Bald Top were ringed 
with flames which gleamed dim and lurid 
through the smoke, and showers of sparks 
thrown high in air showed that the edges of 
the woods beyond Nursey's farm were already 

" She '11 be frightened to death," thought 
Elsie. " Oh, poor dear, and no one to help 

What should she do ? To go after the man 
and waken him meant a long delay. He 
was a heavy sleeper, and his house was a 
quarter of a mile distant. But there was Jack 
in the stable, and the stable key was in the 
hall below. As she dressed, she decided. 

" How glad I am that I can do this!" she 
thought as she flung the harness over the pony's 
back, strapped, buckled, adjusted, — doing all 
with a speed which yet left nothing undone 
and slighted nothing. Not even on the day 
when she took the prize had she put her horse 
in so quickly. She ran back at the last mo- 
ment for two warm rugs. Deftly guiding Jack 
over the grass that his hoofs should make no 




noise, she gained the road, and, quickening 
him to his fastest pace, drove fearlessly into 
the dark woods. 

They were not so dark as she had feared 
they would be, for the light of a late, low- 
hung moon penetrated the trees, with perhaps 
some reflections from the far-away fire, so that 


she easily made out the turns and windings of 
the track. The light grew stronger as she ad- 
vanced. The main fire was still far distant, but 
before she reached Nurse's little clearing, she 
even drove by one place where the woods were 

She had expected to find Mrs. Sparrow in an 
agitation of terror ; but behold, she was in her 
bed, sound asleep ! Happily, it was easy to get 
at her. Nursey's theory was that " if anybody 
thought it would pay him to sit up at night 
and rob an old woman, he 'd do it anyway, 
and need n't have the trouble of getting in at 
the window " ; and on the strength of this 
philosophical utterance she went to bed with 
the door on the latch. 

She took Elsie for a dream at first. 

" I 'm just a-dreaming. I ain't a-going to 

wake up, you need n't think it," she muttered 

But when Elsie at last shook her into con- 
sciousness, and pointed at the fiery glow on 
the horizon, her terror matched her previous 

" Oh, dear, dear ! " she wailed, as with 
trembling, suddenly stiff 
fingers she put on her 
clothes. " I 'm a-go- 
ing to be burned out ! 
It 's hard at my time 
of life, just when I had 
got things tidy and com- 
fortable. I was a-think- 
ing of sending over for 
my niece to the Isle of 
Dogs, and getting her 
to come and stay with 
me, I was indeed, Missy. 
But there won't be any 
use in that now." 

" Perhaps the fire 
won't come so far as 
this after all," said the 
practical Elsie. 

" Oh, yes, it will ! 
It 's 'most here now." 
" Well, whether it 
does or not, I 'm going 
to carry you home with 
me, where you will be 
safe. Now, Nursey, tell me which of your 
things you care most for, that we can take 
with us — small things, I mean. Of course we 
can't carry tables and beds in my little cart." 
The selection proved difficult. Nurse's af- 
fections clung to a tall eight-day clock, and 
were hard to be detached. She also felt 
strongly that it was a clear flying in the face 
of Providence not to save " Sparrow's chair," a 
solid structure of cherry with rockers weighing 
many pounds, and quite as wide as the wagon. 
Elsie coaxed and remonstrated, and at last got 
Nursey into the seat, with the cat and a bundle 
of her best clothes in her lap, her tea-spoons 
in her pocket, a basket of specially beloved 
baking-tins under the seat, and a favorite 
feather-bed at the back, among whose bil- 
lowy folds were tucked away an assortment of 

j8 93 .: 



treasures ending with the Thanksgiving goodies 
which had been brought over that morning. 

" I can't leave that turkey behind, Missy 
dear — I really can't!" pleaded Nursey. "I 've 
been thinking of him, and anticipating how 
good he was going to be, all day; and I 
have n't had but one taste of your pie. 
They 're so little they '11 go in anywhere." 

The fire seemed startlingly near now, and 
the western sky was all aflame, while over 
against it in the east burned the first yellow 
beams of dawn. People were astir by this time, 
and men on foot and horseback were hurry- 
ing toward the burning woods. They stared 
curiously at the oddly laden cart. 

" Why, you did n't ever come over for me 
all alone ! " cried Nurse Sparrow, rousing sud- 
denly to a sense of the situation. " I 've be'n 
that flustered that I never took thought of 
how you got across, or anything about it. 
Where was your pa, Missy, — and Hiram?" 

Elsie explained. 

" Oh, you blessed child; and if you had n't 
come I 'd have been burned in my bed as like 
as not ! " cried the old woman, quite overpow- 
ered. " Well, well ! little did I think, when you 
was a baby and I a-tending you, that the day 
was to come when you were to run yourself into 
danger for the sake of saving my poor old life! " 

" I don't see that there has been any partic- 
ular danger for me to run, so far; and as for sav- 
ing your life, Nursey, it would very likely have 
saved itself if I had n't come near you. See, 
the wind has changed ; it is blowing from the 

north now. Perhaps the fire won't reach your 
house, after all. But, anyway, I am glad you 
are here and not there. We cannot be too 
careful of such a dear old Nursey as you are. 
And one thing, I think, you '11 confess," — Elsie's 
tone was a little mischievous, — " and that is, 
that harnessing classes have their uses. If I 
had n't known how to put Jack in the cart, 
I might at this moment be hammering on the 
door of that stupid Hiram (who, you know, 
sleeps like a log !) trying to wake him, and 
you on the clearing alone, scared to death. 
Now, Nursey, own up : Mrs. Thanet was n't so 
far wrong, now was she ? " 

" Indeed no, Missy. It 'd be very ungrate- 
ful for me to be saying that. The lady judged 
wiser than I did." 

" Very well, then," cried Elsie, joyously. " If 
only your house is n't burned up, I shall be 
glad the fire happened; for it 's such a triumph 
for Mrs. Thanet, and she '11 be so pleased ! " 

Nursey's house did not burn down. The 
change of wind came just in time to save it; 
and, after eating her own Thanksgiving turkey 
in her old home, and being petted and made 
much of for a few days, she went back none 
the worse for her adventure, to find her goods 
and chattels in their usual places and all safe. 

And Mrs. Thanet was pleased. She sent 
Elsie a pretty locket with the date of the fire 
engraved upon it, and wrote that she gloried in 
her as the Vindicator of a Principle, which fine 
words made Elsie laugh ; but she enjoyed being 
praised all the same. 

" This, ladies and gents, is the tattooed man," 
The lecturer, with a cough, began. 

" The aborigines' spear an' dart 
Has made him a livin' work of art ; 
Just notice, please, how they pricked in there 
' Washin'tun crossin' the Delaware.' 

// / I \ X^ \W 


" Next is the midgets, an' their son 
As big as his pa an' ma in one ; 
When he 's as naughty as he can be, 
They never take him upon their knee, 
An' trounce him, an' send him off to bed - 
Kind words are what they use instead. 

'"A livin' work of art!'" 


" Now this here lady, the weight of who 
Is just five hundred an' eighty-two, 
Is as pleasin' a conversation'lisht, 
Ladies an' gents, as could be wished. 
Saturday week, at half-past one, 
She 's to marry the livin' skellytun. 

// / / f i r x \\ 







" These are the famous Texas gi'nts, 
Twins who could give Goliah p'ints ; 



The height of this one is eight foot four, 
An' that one can go him a half-inch more : 
Ladies an' gents, please don't forget 
Neither is done a-growin' yet. 

'■ Ladies an' gents, in this here cage 
Is the greatest wonder of all the age : 


The What-Is-It, which, as you may know, 
Is puzzlin' all the professors so. 
It 's gone in the box now, but don't fail 
To take a look at its trailin' tail. 

; These are the cannybuls, brought hence, 
Ladies an' gents, at great expense. 
Sixty-seven, I 'm grieved to state, 
Is the number of persons they have ate ; 
They 're chained, so there ain't a thing to fear, 
But the babies had better not go too near. 

TO FEAR.' " 


" Now, thankin' you kindly, if you '11 come 
Down into the theatorium, 
You '11 see a performance that 's simply great 
Of ' Uncle Tom's Cabin, Up to Date,' 
With the 'riginul Little Eva, an' 
A pack of bloodhounds from Turkistan ! " 


■ ?ji 







By George W. Cable. 

Most of those who go to New Orleans in 
these days of haste reach it by rail. If they 
come by any of the three routes that lie through 
Mississippi or Alabama, they run for a long time 
through an undulating country, wild in a most 
gentle way, and covered with towering pines in 
almost unbroken forests. 

Then they come to flat lands, pine-barrens, sea- 
marshes, quaking prairies, and tangled swamps 
of tupelo and dwarf palmetto, or of cypress — the 
lofty kind that is not evergreen. These great 
cypresses, with their perpetual drapery of Span- 
ish moss (which I have gathered eight feet 
long), are very dreary in winter, but solemnly 
beautiful in the eight months of spring's green 
and summer's purple haze and golden glow. 

Or on some warm spring day, with Mobile at 
their backs, they emerge upon the low shores of 
Mississippi Sound, at the great delta's eastern 
corner, and spin out across Grand Plains, that 
are robed in green rushes, belted by the blue 
sky and bluer gulf, garlanded like a May-queen 
with mallows, morning-glories, and the flower- 
de-luce, and cuirassed in the steel and silver of 
salty lakelets and ponds. 

But those who come from these directions 
meet one drawback : they must enter the town 
through its back yard, so to speak. But pres- 
ently the river-front is reached, — the levee, the 
sugar-sheds, the shipping, the long steamboat- 
landing, — and the city's commercial life is before 

you, and you leave the train at the foot of Canal 
street, the apple of New Orleans' eye. 

Some visitors to the city approach it by 
steamboat, coming down the Mississippi River. 
These, by the time they arrive, are familiar 
with sugar-plantations, negro-quarters, planters' 
homes, islands of willow and cottonwood, and 
the fascinating hurly-burly of the steamboat's 
lower deck, where the black roustabouts laugh 
and sing while performing prodigious labors. 

Others, but they are a very few, arrive by ocean 
steamer, through the world-renowned Eads jet- 
ties. These have to ascend the river's hundred 
or so miles where it runs below the city, east- 
ward — not south — to empty for all time its 
myriad tons of red and yellow Rocky Moun- 
tain sand into that ever-quaking sieve, the 
wonderful blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico. 

These travelers by the great steamers have 
seen no end of rice-fields and sugar-houses, groves 
of orange, and plantation avenues of live-oak and 
pecan trees. They have come by the remains 
of Forts Jackson and St. Philip, which Farragut, 
on that ever-famous April night in 1862, ran 
past with his wooden ships while the thundering 
forts were trying to make remains of him. And 
they have come round English Turn, a bend in 
the river where Bienville, the founder of New 
Orleans and " Father of Louisiana," once met 
some English explorers, and induced them to 
turn back by telling them something very much 

Vol. XXI.— 6. 




the last battery between him and 
them. And lastly, they have steamed 
by the old battleground where, on 
the 8th of January, 1815, Andrew 
Jackson and his Kentuckians, Ten- 
nesseeans, and Louisiana Creoles, all 
Indian-fighters and bear- and deer- 
hunters, taught the military world 
the value of straight aiming and 
sharp shooting. If you should ever 
be leaving New Orleans for the 
North, no route is so delightful as 
this one, down the river, across to- 
ward Havana, through the Straits of 
Florida, and up the Gulf Stream. 

My first visit to New Orleans was 
by none of these ways: I arrived 
there for the first time on the occa- 
sion of my birth. I have it from mem- 
bers of my family that I came up 
through the ground from China. 
However that may be, I could 
like a fib, — English Turn, where, nearly a cen- hardly have looked around — when I learned 
tury and a half later, the frenzied people of New how to do so — without being interested in my 
Orleans first saw the masts and yards of Farra- neighborhood. The house's garden and grounds 
gut's fleet, and the flash of his guns as he silenced were bounded four-square by an unbroken line — 

: <m^ 



- >■ .■■■,■--■■■ 




a hedge, almost, — of orange-trees, in which the 
orchard-oriole sang by day and the mocking- 
bird all night. Along the garden walks grew the 
low, drooping trees of that kindest — to good 
children — of all tree-fruits, the fig ; though many 's 
the time and many 's the fig-tree in which I 've 
made my mouth sore — so sore I could n't laugh 
with comfort — through eating the fig, by the 


stands, without any special history of its own, 
on a very small fraction of the lands given to 
those priests by the French king. In front of 
it is Annunciation Square, from whose northern 
gate one looked down a street of the same 

From New Orleans' early days, Annunciation 
street was a country road, fronted along its 


dozen dozen, with its skin on, rather than lose 
three seconds to peel it. Even when time is n't 
money, often it 's figs. 

In later years, when the history of this region 
became as true a delight to me as its fruits, I 
learned that Louisiana owes the orange and the 
fig to a company of French Jesuit Fathers who 
brought them to New Orleans very soon after 
the city itself was born, and while it was still a 
tiny, puny thing of mere cabins, green with 
weeds and willows, and infested with musk- 
rats, mosquitos, snakes, frogs, and alligators. 

The house of which I speak stood, and still 

western side by large colonial villas standing in 
their orangeries and fig-orchards, and looking 
eastward, from their big windows, across the 
Mississippi River. Though they stood well back 
from the river-bank, they were whole squares 
nearer it than they are, or would be, now : the 
river has moved off sidewise. Ever since the 
city's beginnings, the muddy current has been 
dumping sand and making land along that 
whole front. Now, instead of the planter's car- 
riage toiling through the mire, one meets in 
granite-paved Annunciation street, and others 
to the east of it, the cotton-float with its three- 




or four-mule team and its lofty load of bales 
destined for, or from, the " compress." For it is 
the cotton-compress whose white cloud of steam 
and long, gasping roar break at frequent inter- 
vals upon the air, signifying, each time, that one 
more bale of the beautiful fleece has been 
squeezed in an instant to a fourth of its former 
bulk, and is ready to be shipped to New or Old 
England, to France, or Russia, for the world's 
better comfort or delight. I could tell you of a 
certain man who, when a boy, used to waste 
hours watching the negro "gangs" as, singing 
lustily and reeking to their naked waists, they 
pressed bale after bale under the vast machinery. 
Yes, he would be glad to waste an hour or two 
more in the same way with you, even now, when 
time has come to be infinitely more than either 
figs or money. Don't miss the weird, inspir- 
ing scene, if ever you go to New Orleans. 

Moving down Annunciation street from the 
square, something like a mile away one reaches 

not its end but its beginning ; for here it comes 
toward us out of another and much more noted 
thoroughfare, whose roadway ever swarms — 
Sundays and dog-days excepted — with floats 
and drays. Even street-cars often have to beg 
their way by littles, and its noisy sidewalks are 
choked with the transit of boxes, crates, and 
barrels of the city's wholesale trade in things 
wet and dry for the table, the sideboard, and 
the luncheon-basket. For this is Tchoupitoulas 

As Annunciation street leaves it, it dives in 
among cotton-presses, junk-shops, and tobacco- 
warehouses, and comes out among ship-wharves, 
storehouses of salt and of ice, piles of lumber, 
staves, and shingles, wood-yards, flatboat-land- 
ings, fleets of coal-barges, sawmills, truck-gar- 
dens, and brick-kilns, and at length, miles away, 
escapes into the country and up the great bends 
of the ever-winding river. It was once the 
road to and through the village of the Tchou- 



i8 93 .] 




pitoulas subtribe of Indians, the town's first and 
nearest human neighbors. It starts nearly at a 
right angle from the river end of Canal street, 
now the fairest and most popular avenue of New 

We have come to Canal street no sooner than 
every one does who visits New Orleans at all. 
One seeks it as naturally as he seeks the eye 
of a person to whom he would speak. Canal 
street is the city's optic nerve. Upon Canal 
street all processions and pageants — a delight- 
some word to New Orleans ears — make their 
supreme display. Here any street-car you find 
will sooner or later bring you, if you should ever 
get lost in a town so level, long, and narrow that 
you are never for five minutes out of sight of 
the masts in the harbor. Here are the largest 
and finest retail stores of the kinds our mothers 
and sisters love to haunt ; here are the chief con- 
fectioners, too. From here the cars start which 
carry their thousands on heated afternoons to 
the waterside resorts of Lake Pontchartrain, 

some four or six miles away northward; and 
here is the dividing line between the New Or- 
leans of the Anglo-Saxon American and that of 
the Creole. 

Like all the cross-streets of the " Crescent 
City," Canal street sleeps — they nearly all do a 
great deal of sleeping, or drowsing at least — 
with the levee for its pillow. I mean the land is 
lower than the river when the waters are up, 
and the levee is an embankment along the river's 
margin, thrown up to keep the Mississippi in 
its own bed and let New Orleans sleep peace- 
fully on hers. 

What enormous quantities of freight are 
here, in rows and piles ! Bales, barrels, and 
casks, without or with tarpaulin covers to shield 
them from the rain of sunbeams even more than 
of water-drops. Scores of little flags of many 
colors and devices flutter over them. These are 
to enable the negroes who unload the boats to 
sort their burdens as directed by the stevedore, 
who stands at the gang-plank to see the mark 





of each package as ii 
comes by him, and give 
its bearer or bearers his 
order accordingly. 

"Go to de blue flag! 
Go to de red an' yel- 
leh ! Go to de white 
cross! Go to de check 
flag! Go to de blue 
anchor ! Go to de check 
an' green ! " 

It is fascinating to 
watch, from the upper 
guards of some great 
packet-boat, this dis- 
tribution of huge trea- 
sure by the hands of 
these ragged black 





Samsons. Sometimes the orders sound like 

"Go to de red hand! Go to de black heart! 
Go to de green moon! Go to de black flag!" 

This levee was once a battle-field. That was 
years ago, though since the great civil war. It 
was a real battle, with infantry and artillery, 
and many were killed and wounded, and a 
State government changed hands as a result of 
it; but though men are quite willing to tell you 
of it if you ask, not even those who won the 

deep, then stand still against it, and the next 
moment spring forward with a peal from their 
parting gun and the courtesying down-run of 
all their bunting, and speed away, while the 
black deck-hands, massed about the jack-staff, 
sing defiance to weariness and fate. All along 
the city's front for miles, as they pass, men and 
boys pull out in skiffs to " take the waves" which 
rise in the wakes of their great paddle-wheels; 
for a Mississippi River side-wheeler "tears the 
river wide open," as they say. In the warm 


battle say much about it without being asked 
now; for it was that worst of all kinds of fight- 
ing, called factional strife, and the levee offers 
so many pleasanter themes. 

When the afternoon hour is nearly five, as 
the lofty steamers' deep-toned bells begin to toll, 
and their towering funnels pour forth torrent 
clouds of black smoke, hundreds gather along 
the levee's front to see the majestic departures 
of the vast yet graceful crafts. One after an- 
other, with flags and pennants streaming, they 
back out from the landing, turning their bows 
up-stream, fall away for a few moments before 
the mighty current of a river one hundred feet 

months many fellows swim out instead of row- 
ing; but, believe me, the "Father of Waters" is 
dangerous enough even for a skiff; it is no fit 
place for a swimmer. 

This description applies mainly to the "upper 
levee " — that is, the part above Canal street. The 
lower has other features. It begins at Canal 
street with the " lower steamboat landing." Here, 
about and under the sugar-sheds, the State's 
great sugar and molasses crop is mainly handled. 

Near the French market, beyond, lie the 
steamships that run to New York. And here 
is that picturesque scene, the Picayune Tier, 
where the Spaniards' and Sicilians' luggers, 




many of them with red sails, huddle together, 
unloading across one another's half-decks their 
cargoes of oysters, melons, garlics, egg- 
plants, sweet-peppers, pecans, and 
oranges. Just beyond it begins the 
long crescent of the "lower shipping," ■ 
both steam and sail. Much of this is 
from Liverpool, Havre, or Hamburg, 
coming after cotton, cotton, cotton ; but 
much, too, — brigs, barks, barkantines, 
with hulls white, blue, or green — is from 
the Mediterranean, the Peninsula, ''the 
Bay of Biscay, O," and the Antilles, bring- 
ing lemons, olives, almonds, prunes, 
wines, cordials, raisins, sardines, 
cocoanuts, bananas, cof- 
fee, cacao, dates, 
and cinnamon, 
yet never ut- 

tering one single "Have some?" to the boys 
who stand about with flattened stomachs and 


watering mouths. — There ! 
that boy 's got a banana! — 
Catch him! — Who? — He 's a 
half-mile away, and still going; earn- 
ing his banana by the sweat of his legs. 
Let us turn back to the French market. 
For there is beautiful, quaint old Jackson 
Square, and behind it the twin spires of 
St. Louis Cathedral, both of them just 
where Bienville staked out the ground 
for them a hundred and seventy-five years 
ago. He called the square (and it was 
so called for more than a century) the 
Place d'Armes. The plan was for six 
streets to run behind the square parallel 
with the river-bank, with six crossing 
them at right angles on the square's left, 
and six others doing the same on its 
right, the whole having the levee in front 
and a wall of earth and palisades on the 
other three sides. Certain streets even 

i8 9 3-] 



yet show by their names where this old wall and 
its moat were, — Canal street, Rampart, Espla- 
nade, — making what is still called the " vieux 
carre," the old square. This is but a slender frac- 
tion of the present Creole New Orleans below 
Canal street ; but it is the old, the historic Creole 
Quarter; and there was not much more than 
this even when Claiborne, the young Virginian, 
was the first governor of the State of Louisiana, 
and Andrew Jackson, the savior of New Or- 
leans, parleyed, in yonder room whose windows 
still look out upon the old square, with Lafitte, 
the pirate of the Gulf of Mexico, and accepted 
his aid to drive back the British invader. Now 
the long, thin city stretches up and down the 
bends of its river-harbor twelve miles and more, 
and promises ere long to have a quarter of a 
million inhabitants. 

Just behind the " vieux carre," and facing 
Rampart street midway between Canal and 
Esplanade, just as Jackson Square faces the 
levee, is a piece of public ground " whose pres- 
ent name of Congo Square," as somebody says, 
" still preserves a reminder of its old barbaric 
pastimes." For here it is where the Creoles' 
slaves, when this was outside the town gates, 
used to dance their wild dances, Bamboula and 
the Calinda. Here, for many years, was Caye- 
tano's circus and many a bull-fight. Here is 
where Parson Jones preached, and where Bras 
Coupe was lassoed. You do not know them ? 
It does n't matter; they were only friends of 
mine ; but I hope you will know them some- 
time, when you are grown older. 

Children love New Orleans, — and, next 
month, I will tell you why. 


By S. F. H. 

The leaves have turned from green to red, 

From red to sober brown, 
And left the branches overhead, 

And softly fluttered down. 

And flowers in woodland dell and wold, 
Are covered warm and deep ; 

And, snugly sheltered from the cold, 
Have safely gone to sleep. 



Vol. XXL— 7. 


By Mary Shears Roberts. 

III. Nicholas Ferry (Bebe). 

Far away in eastern France, under the 
shadow of the great Vosges Mountains, lived, 
a century and a half ago, a worthy couple 
named Ferry. They were strong and healthy 
young peasants, and for a time they had dwelt 
together quite contentedly. The husband tilled 
his field of flax while the wife milked her goats 
and made her famous cream-cheeses. 

One bleak November morning in 1741 there 
was born at the Ferry cottage a little boy — so 
little indeed that all who saw him wondered 
how such a wee mite of humanity could even 
breathe. He was not quite eight inches long, 
and he weighed less than a pound ; and yet he 
was thought a very pretty and perfect infant. 

The appearance of this tiny stranger created 
great excitement all through the village. No 
one so tiny had ever been seen before, and all 
the good dames crowded into the cottage, fill- 
ing it so full and chattering so loudly that it 
was a marvel the little fellow was not killed 
outright ; and indeed it was no easy matter to 
rear "Bebe" till he grew up — if such a mani- 
kin could ever be called grown up. His mouth 
was so tiny that it was difficult to feed him; 
but his kind grandmama finally hit upon a plan 
of giving him goat's milk through a quill, and 
after that he did very well. 

Of course, all the little linen shirts and dresses 
for babies were many times too large, and had 
it not been for a good-natured girl who gave 
her doll's clothes, Bebe would have been left 
(like our own Flora McFlimsey in the ballad) 
with nothing to wear. 

The work of dressing and undressing him 
was very difficult. He was such a fragile little 
toy that his father, with his big rough hands, 
was afraid to touch him lest he might break a 
tiny leg or arm, or pinch off a few fingers and 

toes altogether; so Bebe was quite a mother's 
boy, and it took her some time to get used to 
handling him. She made a little bed for him 
in one of his father's wooden shoes, lining it 
with tow ; and in this humble cot the child 
slept as soundly and as sweetly as if he were a 
high-born baby of ordinary size in a satin-lined 

When he was about a month old, there was 
sent to him from the town of Nancy a hand- 
some china dish holding a tiny pillow of fine 

bebe cradled in his father's wooden shoe. 

white linen stuffed with softest down. On this 
Bebe was placed when carried to the church to 
be christened. 

Never was there such a christening in the 
town before. The whole village turned out 
and joined the procession, and the children 
were so anxious to see this mite baptized that 
the priest had to stop more than once and 
wave back the crowd of inquisitive faces 
before he could go on with the ceremony. 
But it was finished at last, and the Ferrys' eld- 
est son had a right to the name of Nicholas, 



though most people called him Bebe to the 
end of his life. 

Nicholas grew very slowly, and when he was 
only six months old he had the smallpox. The 
little fellow was quite ill, but he recovered, 
owing to his mother's tender care. 

He did not begin to talk until he was a year 
and a half old, and even then he could speak 
only a few words. When he was two years 
old he made his first attempt to walk, and his 
proud and delighted mama carried him to the 
village shoemaker and ordered a pair of shoes 
for Bebe. At first the man only laughed at 
her, but at last she induced him to measure the 
child's foot. It was just one inch and a half 
long. After a great deal of trouble a pair of 
shoes were fashioned to fit. Such shoes! — they 
must have looked like doll's pumps. 

Naturally, Bebe became an object of great cu- 
riosity, and people traveled long distances to see 
him. Although his diet now consisted of vege- 
tables and bacon, he managed to keep well and 
grow up straight and shapely — a charming lit- 
tle figure. He was good-looking too, on a 
small scale, in spite of a few blemishes that the 
cruel malady had left on the pretty little face. 

At this time Louis XV. and his wife, Marie 
Leszczynski, were king and queen of France. 
Marie was the daughter of Stanislaus, once 
King of Poland, but at the time of his daugh- 
ter's wedding only an exiled monarch who had 
lost his crown and had very nearly lost his 
head — and the Leszczynski family was in very 
straitened circumstances. 

I suppose the King of France thought it did 
not look very well for his wife's father (and an 
ex-king) to be a wanderer and an outcast on the 
face of the earth; and besides, the old man kept 
writing the most annoying begging letters to 
the Court of France; so, when the treaty be- 
tween Charles VI. of Austria and Louis XV. 
was made, it was agreed that, although Stanis- 
laus should abdicate the throne of Poland, he 
should still be called King, and furthermore, 
he should be put in possession of the duchies of 
Lorraine and Bar. 

So it was in the grand duchy of Lorraine, 
and therefore as a loyal subject of King Stanis- 
laus, that our little Nicholas first saw the light 
of day ; and by the time he was six years of age 

the old King had established a brilliant court at 
Luneville, where he kept house in right regal 

From the earliest times court dwarfs had 
shared with fools and jesters the favors of 
crowned heads and nobles, and the class had 
not yet died out. Indeed, no well-regulated 
court in Europe could at this time be found 
without one or more tiny men or women — and 
Stanislaus was particularly partial to the pygmy 
race. As soon as he heard of Bebe he was anx- 

bebe carried to court in a basket, by his father. 

ious to see him, and great excitement prevailed 
in the Ferry cottage when word was brought 
that the King had sent for young Nicholas. 

Catherine arrayed him in a little peasant cos- 
tume, the best she could afford, and shed tears 
as she bade him adieu. He measured just 
twenty-two inches and weighed exactly eight 
pounds, so his proud and happy father popped 
him into a little basket and set out for the pal- 
ace at Luneville. 

The arrival was duly announced, and the 
poor bewildered peasant marched into the royal 
presence with the basket still hanging on his 
arm. The courtiers and fine ladies about the 




King all tittered and giggled at the awkward 
bearing of Ferry, but when the cover of the 
basket was raised and the sprightly little Nich- 




olas sprang out, a cry of admiration sounded 
from all sides. 

Bebe pleased the King so much that he filled 
the basket with good things and loaded Papa 
Ferry with presents before he sent him home. 
As for little Nicholas, his Majesty announced 
that he was too pretty a manikin to be wasted 
in the seclusion of a village — he should stay at 
court ; so poor Ferry, as he trudged back to his 
lonely home, was left to console himself with 
dreams of the greatness in store for his son. 
As for Bebe, his fortune was made, according to 
the notions of those times. He was to be a 
king's favorite, and to live in a palace. 

Great was the grief of the loving mother 
when her husband returned without her little 
Bebe. To be sure, by this time she had two 
other children, but there was nothing remark- 
able about them, and Bebe, tiny as he was, was 
the mother's pet. She grieved so much that 
she determined to go and see him, and, if pos- 

sible, induce the King to allow her to bring him 
home again. 

Now Bebe had a very poor memory. He 
could never recollect for forty-eight hours any 
event, however remarkable ; so when, after a 
week's absence, his mother arrived to see him, 
he had totally forgotten her — a poor return 
for all the tender care she had lavished on him. 
But Bebe had a better excuse than have most 
people who in prosperity refuse to recognize the 
friends of humbler days, for the little fellow's 
mind was really not strong; nature had stinted 
him in intelligence as well as in stature. 

The manikin looked so fine in his gay court 
suit of blue satin and silver lace that the poor 
woman could scarcely believe this was her little 
Nicholas — her own Bebe, as she still fondly 
called him. But memory would not waken, and 
she turned from the palace weeping, while he 
pirouetted about in his tiny high-heeled shoes 
with their diamond buckles, and threw kisses 
after her from his slender jeweled fingers. 

Bebe soon grew accustomed to the luxuries 
of the court, and became very fond of the King, 
whom he always called " Sweetheart." His 
intellect, however, continued very weak ; he 
could not, it seemed, distinguish between right 
and wrong, and he had no reasoning powers at 
all. But he could dance very well and sing a 
little in a flute-like voice, and he was always 
ready to play jokes with the courtiers. 

The King, who earnestly wished Bebe to 
learn to read, appointed the Princess of Tal- 
mond to teach him; but it was utterly impos- 
sible to make him see the difference between 
one letter and another. He became very fond 
of his teacher, however, and developed an ex- 
tremely jealous disposition. One day, after 
giving him a lesson, she picked up a little pet 
dog and commenced to caress it. In an in- 
stant Bebe had snatched it from her arms, and 
before she had time to stop him, he threw it 
out of the window. Then he turned and stamped 
his foot, while his eyes filled with angry tears as 
he passionately exclaimed: 

"Why do you love him more than me ?" 

At this time Bebe must have been a very 
engaging little fellow. He had beautiful brown 
eyes, and light golden hair, and he was so 
vivacious, gay, and graceful ' that everybody 

i8 93 ] 



loved him, — notwithstanding his fits of jeal- 
ousy, — and he became the toy and plaything 
of the court. 

The Russian Empress, who also was very 
fond of dwarfs, took a great fancy to Bebe 
when she saw him at Luneville, and at the 
end of a visit she was paying to Stanislaus, she 
attempted to carry off our little hero without 
saying "by your leave" to either him or the 
King. Just before quitting the palace one of 
her maids of honor snatched up the dwarf and 
attempted to stuff him into a pocket of her 
sable cloak ; but Bebe, who was highly indig- 
nant at such treatment, called out at the top of 
his tiny lungs, " Sweetheart ! Sweetheart ! " till 
at last the wee voice was heard, and he was 
rescued more dead than alive. 

Soon after this, Stanislaus started oft" on a trip 
to Versailles to visit the Queen, his daughter, 
taking his little friend with him. Everywhere 
they went Bebe attracted a great deal of atten- 

inches, called out, " Sweetheart ! Sweetheart ! 
here 's another beautiful lady trying to put me 
in her pocket ! " And King Louis, who had 
heard the story of the Russian Empress, was 
so much amused and so well pleased with the 
dwarf that he ordered a beautiful little house 
to be constructed for him. 

This small building was made complete in 
every particular, and it was placed on wheels, 
so that it could be moved from place to place. 
The rooms were all finished in white and gilt, 
with parquet floors, just like those in the big 
palace at Versailles, and they were fitted with 
furniture duly suited to Bebe's size. In this 
tiny mansion he had a little greyhound about 
as big as a squirrel, and a pair of turtle-doves 
the size of canary-birds. 

Afterward, at a big banquet given during 
their visit to Paris, Bebe went through the usual 
performance of court dwarfs. A huge pie was 
set on the table (who ever heard of a dwarf 

t ! T>-' 



g ,&- » «. gem 


A igm\\, lli.5 


tion, and everywhere the ladies smothered him 
with kisses and bonbons. 

One day a celebrated beauty belonging to 
King Louis's court snatched him up and tried 
to place him on her knee, but Beb6, whose 
memory seems to have increased faster than his 

that was not at one time or another of his 
life served up in a pie ?), and from it sprang 
the manikin, dressed in a military costume 
and carrying a tiny banner, which he waved as he 
marched round the table paying many compli- 
ments to the amused guests. After this he re- 



turned and stood sentry near his pie till time 
for dessert. Then the King gave the signal for 
a regular attack directed against Bebe. All the 
guests joined in the bombardment, and he 
courageously received the fusillade of sugar- 
plums and bonbons till the courtiers tired of 
the sport, and Bebe found leisure to eat the 
missiles on the battle-field. 

After they had returned to Lorraine, another 
dwarf, named Boruwlaski, came to visit King 
Stanislaus. This little fellow was a few inches 
shorter than Bebe, and was called "Joujou."* 
He was very bright and intelligent, and though 
Bebe at first appeared to have great affection for 
him, he soon became jealous of the new-comer 
because King Stanislaus paid him so much 

One day, after Joujou had been talking with 
the King, his Majesty turned to Bebe and said: 
" You see, Bebe, what a difference there is be- 
tween Joujou and you. He is amiable, cheerful, 
and well informed, while you are nothing but a 
little machine." 

To these unkind words Bebe' made no reply, 
but his face showed that he felt them deeply. 

Watching his opportunity, as soon as the 
King had gone he seized his little rival by the 
waist and tried to push him into the fire; and 
if Stanislaus had not heard the scuffle and 
come quickly back, I am afraid there would 
have been a tragedy in the palace at Lune- 
ville. Beb6 was punished and made to beg 
Joujou's pardon, though he did this very 

There was another dwarf at the court of 
King Stanislaus, — a little girl named Therese 
Souvray, who was born in the same province 
as Bebe, and was some years younger than he, 
and about the same height. In 1761 a mar- 
riage was arranged between this pair of mid- 
gets, but Bebe died before the happy day. 
Little Therese, however, lived to a good old 
age, and took the name of her intended hus- 
band. When she was ten years old she was 

exhibited as a curiosity in Paris, and in 1822 
we hear of her at the age of seventy-three, 
thirty-three inches tall, lively, gay, and dan- 
cing the dances of the period with her sis- 
ter, Barbe Souvray, two years older and eight 
inches taller. 

Beb6 died very young. At the age of fif- 
teen he began to decline; he lost all his gay 
spirits, and became bowed and crooked like an 
old man. He grew more and more sorrowful, 
and only at rare intervals, when they used to 
carry him out and place him on a bench in 
some sunny corner, would his spirits revive, 
and for a short space he would seem like the 
Bebe of happier days. But these moments be- 
came fewer and briefer, and it was soon evi- 
dent to all that the little fellow had not long 
to live. The King sent for Madame Ferry to 
come and take care of her son, and he passed 
his last days lying on his mother's knees; for 
even then he was not so large as a four-year- 
old child. 

Toward the last his mind grew clearer, and 
he said a great many clever and sensible 
things, but this was the last flash before the 
little candle went out. He died on the 9th of 
June, 1764. 

He was deeply regretted by Stanislaus, who 
lived but two years longer than his favorite 
dwarf. Before the King died he caused to be 
erected at Luneville a beautiful tomb to the 
memory of Bdbe, bearing an epitaph in Latin, 
which read, in part, as follows : 

Here lies 

Nicolas Ferry, of Lorraine, 

A Sport of Nature, 

Remarkable for his small stature. 

Died, June 9, 1764. 

In the Museum of the Faculte de Medecine, 
at Paris, is a wax model which represents B6b€ 
at the age of eighteen ; and his little arm-chair 
and statue form part of a celebrated collection 
in the same city. 

* Plaything. 

By Clara Doty Bates. 

The little girl Alice, who, once upon a time, 
gave chase to a white rabbit across a field, 
and when it popped down a large hole under 
the hedge, followed it, and found herself in 
Wonderland, really did not come upon any 
more curious and extraordinary things than 
could be seen any day upon the Midway Plai- 
sance at the Columbian Exposition. 

She found talking puppies and mice and 
caterpillars and pigeons, but in the real Won- 
derland of the Plaisance the people, and what 
they had and what they did, were quite as 
queer. The Plaisance was, at the outset, a 
very commonplace boulevard between two 
parks. It even grew weeds and thriving rank 
prairie-grass. No one thought of finding it 
either amusing or picturesque. One only 
thought of passing over it to get, as quickly 
as possible, to the more attractive park beyond. 
But when the wizard's wand touched it, it 
straightway became enchanted. 


Then throngs of singular people hurried to 
inhabit it. They came from every quarter of 
the globe, with every sort of household belong- 
ing, and settled down and began to take root. 

The North Pole folk started first. Labrador 
gathered together a little handful of her fur-clad 

families, put them aboard ship, and sent them 
over the cold seas and across thousands of miles 
of winter lands to pitch their huts for the season 
of the Fair under Chicago oaks. They launched 
their sealskin "kayaks," or canoes, upon the la- 
goons of the park; ranged their " komitics," 
or sledges, along their banks ; penned their 
wolfish-looking dogs; tethered their reindeer; 
made themselves at home, and began to enjoy 
themselves in true arctic fashion. 

Pomiuk, their boy prince, entered at once 
upon a career of penny-gathering. He was a 
real prince of a tribe with a terrible name — 

This Eskimo prince did not look much like 
the royal children in the story-books, but was 
stubby, sturdy, black -haired, and swarthy-skin- 
ned with a good deal of red underneath, mak- 
ing his cheeks look very much the color of a 
smoldering coal. From first to last he re- 
garded the whole Exposition as tributary to 
his pocket. There was one game his people 
amused themselves with a good deal, which 
might be called " crack the whip." A coin 
was stuck upon edge in the center of a wide 
space, and the players ranged themselves at 
a distance from it corresponding to the length 
of their whips. These were of braided walrus- 
hide, flexible, snake-like, coiling things, im- 





mensely long. The one who dislodged the 
money from the earth with the tip of his lash, 
won it. Their lifelong practice in driving dog- 
teams enabled them to hit a mark with ex- 
quisite accuracy. Pomiuk's lash was much 
shorter than the others — not more than twelve 
feet in length. He would play at that game for 
hours together. When lookers-on grew inatten- 
tive, and no more money seemed forthcoming, 
he would cry out in very understandable Eng- 
lish, " Put up a nickel ! Put up a nickel ! " 

Meantime, the native life about him went 
on. " Pussay" drove the dogs in harness. He 
roused them to their task by a quick cry of 
" Ho-bro ! " When the ready creatures crowded, 
and tangled their straps and strings in their 

efforts to get as far as 
possible from his wal- 
rus-thong, he shouted, 
"Oosht! Oosht!" 

The "doak," or rein- 
deer, pulled their sledges 
in winter, and in summer 
were hitched to light carts. 
They had Tommy Deer 
for teamster. One could 
well believe St. Nicho- 
las could drive his team 
of eight over the roofs 
of the land in a single 
night — to say nothing of 
stopping at all the chim- 
ney stations to deliver 
packages — the reindeer 
are so built for swiftness 
and endurance. Their 
branching antlers must 
be made for the special 
purpose of casting intri- 
cate shadows in the 
moonlight upon the snow, 
otherwise they might be 
considered top-heavy and 
a burden. 

Mollie, one of the lit- 
tle Eskimo girls, was 
better-mannered than 
Pomiuk, and cared as 
much for her lean, black 
American kitten as he 
She wore trousers too, and 
hated to be called a girl. Her little sister 
hushed a precious rubber doll to sleep as ten- 
derly as if she were civilized. 

Three children were born to these people 
after they came to Jackson Park — "Christo- 
pher Columbus," " Columbia Palmer," and an 
unnamed little girl who died. The mothers do 
not carry their babies in their arms, but stow 
them away in a wide hood at the back of their 
upper garments. This roomy hood makes a 
safe and cozy cradle for the dark-skinned in- 
fant, and it is a pretty sight to see the beady- 
bright eyes of a newly waked young Eskimo 
peering out from his comfortable nest on his 
mother's shoulders. 

did for nickels. 




A sweltering day in midsummer could hardly 
be called a pleasant one for the other snow- 
born people — the Lapps. King Bull, their 
chief, in his low, bare, rude hut, with his wives 
and many children about him, might have been 
looked upon as a regal figure in his own land 
of ice and midnight sun. But with his reindeer 
vest cast aside, and exhibiting his sealskin sus- 
penders throughout a blistering midsummer 
day, he was in no wise regal. Yet he is a great 
man at home, owning twelve thousand rein- 
deer. The leather cradle swung from the 
rafters of the hut, or the branch of a small tree, 
with tassels of bright beads hanging clown over 
its hood for the infant Princess Bull to play 
with, hardly suggested that it had ever brought 
slumber to kings. Yet in 
Lapland twelve thousand 
reindeer mean imperial 
wealth and power. 

The heat made mockery 
of the lines of slim snow- 
shoes stacked up against 
the fence, the cumbrous 
fur robes hung out like 
clothes upon a line to dry, 
and the clumsy, trough- 
like sledges standing about 
as if waiting to take a 
family party out for a ride 
upon the glacier. An 
obliging youth repeatedly 
strapped on his skee-shoes 
and ran about the inclo- 
sure, to show how fast he 
could go when shod with 
these narrow strips of 
board; but he looked as 
if he would presently be 

The Lapland dress was 
peculiar in shape, young 
and old, men and women, 
wearing bell-flaring skirts 
very like the latest fashion 

in our own land, except shorter. Their reindeer 
were not so trim and well groomed as the Eski- 
mo team. When a reindeer baby was born in 
Vol. XXI.— 8. 


the village, soon after their arrival, many of 
the Plaisance people called to offer congrat- 
ulations. Turkish and Arabian orchestras 
serenaded, dancing-girls sent sweetmeats, and 
the Dahomeyans tried to get a peep at it over 
the wall. But the reindeer mother cared only 
for her Lapland moss, and to pitch the dogs out 
of the corral when they became too inquisitive. 
There were other young reindeer in the flock, 
and they looked like rather tall, rusty lambs, 
but had lovely lustrous eyes and patient faces. 


In extreme contrast to the people of the 
snow-lands were their neighbors, the Daho- 
meyans, from the Guinea coast of West Africa. 
They brought with them dried palm-leaves to 


thatch their globe-shaped bark huts, and plenty 
of long dried native grass for the bunchy fantas- 
tic girdles which they wore about their hips. 




One felt inclined to walk their streets rather gin- 
gerly, for so much rustling herbage was sug- 
gestive of snakes, which they worship in their 
own country. It had taken them two months' 
constant journeying to get to the Plaisance from 
the cane-brakes of their home. How differ- 
ent from their accustomed freedom was this 
confinement in a small bark inclosure, to be- 
come a wild show for millions of people ! 
Black as the shades of night they were, — black 
and gaunt, with broad noses and immense 
shocks of kinky wool. They were quite in na- 
tive fashion as to dress if they had but a wisp 
of bright cotton cloth twisted about them, and 
a rush topknot. And bare feet and legs were 


of no account so long as they had beads. And 
such a noisy crowd they were ! There was 
never an hour in the day when they were not 
pounding upon wooden kegs, and yelling in 
shrill excited voices. No wonder their one 
baby cried. Yet he did not cry because of 
the noise, but because a stranger picked him 
up from behind a bamboo paling where he was 
playing with his little brother. Floods of tears 
ran down his distorted little face, and he 
screamed " Mammy! Mammy!" Mammy, sit- 
ting in the door of her hut, did not even look 
up, and the little brother grinned, showing 
beautiful white teeth. On a broad platform 

under an awning there was a mimic war-dance 
going on ; the Amazons, their fierce woman 
warriors, had bound a man — probably an Ash- 
antee — hand and foot. His comrades were 
trying to rescue him. The warlike women 
flew at them with hatchets, flourished swords, 
gesticulated, and acted in such a ferocious and 
bloodthirsty manner that a looker-on felt his 
blood curdle. The drummers beat their wooden 
kegs, making a perfect bedlam, but little Daho- 
mey's yell of " Mammy!" could easily be heard 
through it all. One would have thought mur- 
der was being done; but, put once more behind 
his paling in the dirt, he laughed. He gave 
good promise of becoming fully as boisterous 
and turbulent as his savage kindred. 

No one has a name in Dahomey. In child- 
hood a brand is burned upon the cheek, and 
this tattoo is the only naming and christening. 


Imagine a playhouse village made of baskets, 
and you have the Javanese settlement. It had 
a basket-fence all about it, wrought out of split 
bamboo. This did not in the least hide the 
nest-like homes within. On the contrary, it 
offered constant temptation to peep through 
its wide meshes to see what might be going 
on along those glaring white roads and be- 
hind those rush-lace-screened verandas. Dolls 
might live there, or possibly real children just 
for play, but what odd homes for grown-up, 
busy people doing genuine, humdrum work ! 

It is a curious idea to weave houses just as 
kindergarten children weave bright-colored pa- 
pers. Yet that is the way the little brown 
people from Java make theirs. 

They came to the Plaisance, and set to work 
in an easy-going, cheerful manner, as if they 
had never heard the word " hurry." In the 
semi-idleness which they are used to in their 
far-off, lovely and fertile island, they whittled 
out the frames for their dwellings, braided the 
walls in gay-colored mosaics, thatched the low 
roofs, and outlined their slant lines with black 
cocoanut fiber. They set up the hummingest 
little corn-stalk weather-vane that ever whirled 
a merry tune to the wind. As they worked, 
the ground was strewn with a rubbish of dried 
palm and chips of bamboo; but a gang of men 

is 93 .; 




followed them everywhere 
with a sort of palanquin, 
or litter, upon which they 
placed the odds and ends, 
and carried them off. In 
that way all was kept as 
clean as a swept floor. 

These Java people were 
very much the color of 
their own coffee. They 
were the gentlest, thrifti- 
est, most cordial and ami- 
able little creatures that 
ever reared a city out of 
straws. They dressed in 
fragments of bright cot- 
ton, with bare feet thrust 
into small-toed sandals, 
the soles of which flapped 
at every step. They had 
a way of taking these off 
for comfort, while they 
squatted cross-legged at 
breakfast or dinner upon 
their verandas, and the 
shoes were strewn about among their dishes. 
The floor was their table, and the Javanese pal- 
ate did not seem to be disturbed by trifles. Some- 

times they ate their rice and curry with strips 
of tin torn from old tomato-cans. But if that 
were not expeditious enough, a little black hand 
and five fingers made a very proper spoon. 
They drank their coffee from cups made of 
bamboo joints, and covered their cigarettes 
with bamboo leaf held in place by a bit of 

" Like Chicago! — very good Chicago!" was 
their chief conversation. 

In the center of their town stood the chapel. 
Near it was a small thatched pagoda. This 
was the house of " Claas," the four-year-old 
baboon. Claas was the terror of the Plaisance. 
He looked like a very short and slight, very 
long-armed, very hairy, and very homely, brown 
old man. His upper lip formed more than half 
his face. His eyes were close-set and small, and 
his expression stupid and evil. Day in and day 
out he swung by one hand round and round an 
upright pole, chewed at a part of his bedclothes, 


and seemed to be thinking sadly over his own 
strange fate. 

The Javanese musical instruments are made 




mostly of bamboo. They also played 
upon a pipe, or whistle, which was about 
three feet long and six inches across. 
This sounded like the hollow roar of a 
lion. Another was a bundle of tubes of 
different lengths, which covered the 
small boy who carried it like a big sad- 
dle. A log hewn out, with two strings 
stretched across it, served as a drum. A 
zither of sixteen strings and a mandolin 
of two completed their outdoor band, 
while inside one could hear other music 
made by gongs of wonderfully pure and 
beautiful tone. 

These gentle people had much of 
sorrow in Plaisance land. Antonia lost 
her baby, and afterward died of grief 

>7 ^Pfe 



for it. The funeral procession, passing through 
the fantastic street of the Plaisance, received 
the awed reverence of the motley inhabitants. 


China came to the Plaisance with a tea-pot in 
her hand. Two beautiful little girls, Rosie and 
Sophie, and two chubby, diminutive, almond- 
eyed boys, made one forget the every-day laun- 
dryman type which has hitherto given us our 
ideas of the people of the Flowery Middle 
Kingdom. In their pretty native costumes the 
little girls were as sweet as the tea-blossom itself. 
Their jet-black braids were lengthened out with 
skeins of crimson silk, and there were bunchy 
little rosettes at each side of the head. There 
was a wondrous refinement in the clear pallor of 
their complexions. Celestial is a fitting word 
to describe the serene gentleness of their faces. 




In the tea-house the 
tradesmen and docile 
venders of the steaming 
cups showed equal re- 
finement. The fragrant 
drink was from fifteen 
to twenty-five cents a 
cup. One of the per- 
suasive attendants, in a 
quilted coat, was asked 
what made the differ- 
ence in price. He an- 
swered, " Little more 
boilee water." That was 
a childlike admission 
indeed. " Little more 
boilee water ' : should 
make a difference ! 

Their joss-house bore 
tiny bells hung at every 
corner of its square tur- 
reted tower. The theater 
had two hundred actors, 

who played an endless drama called " Prince ing for other nations, and they could have had 
giving the Child to its Mother." Gongs were the aid of all our modern mechanical ingenuity 
beaten all day, with a rattle of small drums and if they had wished it, they chose literally to 
the clanging of cymbals. shoulder their burdens and plod on after their 



Japan, too, came to the Plaisance, though 
less a stranger than many others. She built a 
lacquer town upon the Wooded Island. The 
houses were neatly and wondrously fashioned, 
with movable panels, sliding walls, flower-pots, 
matting, and gorgeous gilded decorations. 
The bazaars for trade were upon the Plaisance. 

Shaven coppery polls and tags of black hair 
characterized the Brownies that built them. 
They had hardly any eyes at all — mere little 
oblique slits through which shone black beads. 
They wore awkward wooden clogs, or were 
shod with straw sandals fastened with a leather 
thong passing between the first and second 
toe. Their garments had a huddled effect — 
tight trousers and loose blue blouses with a large 
red cross upon the back. The cross was the 
workmen's trade mark. They seemed like 
Brownies, indeed ; for they depended upon the 
good old motive power of muscles to do all 
their work. While great steam-cranes were lift- 





own slow custom. It was odd to see them 
strain and tug, each one seeming to work apart 
from every other, yet each furthering to the ut- 
most the general design. Their houses were 
not built from the ground up, but from the 
top down. Their rafters were not nailed or 
pegged together, but tied deftly with some 
vegetable thong. When nails were driven, it 
was with repeated nice blows with a tiny 
hammer, instead of with one or two strong di- 
rect strokes. It was considered a blemish if 
a nail-head was left in sight. But, with all 
the pottering of these pygmies, they did accom- 


plish the most artistic buildings and gardens 
that were ever seen upon the shores of Lake 
Michigan. Their gardeners brought twenty 
miles of landscape into a single flower-bed; 
then they set out tea-plants and native blossom- 
ing shrubs and trees. The vandal geese from 
the Lagoon were quick to find out this feeding- 
ground of imported dainties, and came up out 
of the water and pulled up whatever dainties 
they craved. As soon as they were discovered 

in their marauding, they were shut up; other- 
wise Japan would have had hysterics. 

Children could now and then be seen loll- 
ing over balcony rails, where " No Admittance " 
kept out the wandering visitors. They were 
soft, smiling young things, ready to shake hands, 
but not inclined to speak. Were they home- 
sick for their top-spinning and kite-flying, for 
cherry-blossoms and chrysanthemums, and for 
a ride in a jinrikisha ? 


A little boy of six years was perched upon 
an unfinished wall where " Cairo street " was to 
be. He looked down with grave, bright, curi- 
ous eyes, and said to every passer, " Hello ! " 
This was Egypt's first effort at English greeting. 
It meant " Good morning," " How do you do ? " 
" Good-by," or any other necessary conversa- 
tion. When the " street " 
was completed and thrown 
open to visitors, Cairo daz- 
zled the Plaisance with a 
gorgeous procession. Bare- 
footed Arab and Soudanese 
youngsters led it. They 
paced with slow, fantastic 
steps to a dumb pantomime 
of their own music. In their 
hands they bore stringless 
mandolins, on which they 
pretended to thrum, holding 
them aloft, with their tur- 
baned heads thrown back. 
Although their striped cot- 
ton slips were dirty and 
faded, to them they were 
triumphal robes. Behind 
them came the bedizened 
camels, with bits of mir- 
ror shining in tinseled setting on their scarlet 
saddle-cloths, and with strings of bells dan- 
gling from their bridles against their knees. 
These jangled at every awkward step. Pres- 
ently the boys in the lead fell to turning somer- 
saults. The camel-riders each beat two drums, 
one on either side of the saddle. " Toby " 
whipped up his tiny donkey, "Yankee Doodle." 
Swordsmen stopped the whole cavalcade to let 
drive at each other with make-believe ferocity. 




Wrestlers, in leather breeches, formed frequent 
rings and had a test of strength; and priests 
chanted sacred songs. It was like circus day 
in a small town, only that instead of shoals of 
small boys swarming after the chariots, here 
were throngs of men and women moving like a 
river on either side of the grotesque parade of 
Egyptians, Arabs, Nubians, and Soudanese. 

Cairo street supplied rare entertainment — 
astrologers, snake-charmers, conjurers, native 
dancers, camel-riding, donkey-riding, and shops 
of every kind. 

At one end were spread upon the pavement 
loose hay-ticks, upon which the velvet-nosed 
camels knelt in homely patience to receive 
their loads of laughing boys and girls. The 
terrific heave forward when the camel's hind 
legs were straightened preparatory to his get- 
ting up, and the equally violent pitch backward 
when his fore legs were got into walking po- 
sition, sent shouts of merriment from morning 
to night up and down the ancient canvas walls 
with their latticed windows and overhanging 
balconies. The " ships of the desert " moved 
as if always in the trough of the sea. Then 
there were cries of " Look out ! Look out ! " 
from Toby, the donkey-boy. Achmet, his con- 
frere, was wont to add a little to that cry. His 
was, " Look out — look out for ' Mary Ander- 
son ' ! " (So he had named the donkey). 

Souror was the Soudanese dancing baby. 

She was very cunning, as she twisted her curly 
head, wriggled her small body, and stamped 
her bare feet or her red American shoes. 

One woman, in a curious costume, with a 
beautiful crimson in her dark cheeks, carried 
a restless baby in her arms. A passer held 
out a friendly finger to the child, and asked, 
" Where ? " " Bethlehem," answered the baby's 


Germany, with her Black Forest dwelling, 
her moated castle of the olden time, gave 
good music rather than any novel element to 
the Plaisance. The Irish villages showed in- 
dustries ; the Moorish, bazaars ; Constantinople 
street, a mosque from the top of which the 
muezzin called to prayer ; Dutch East India, 
jugglers and snake-charmers; and the Bedouins, 
an encampment where life on the desert was il- 
lustrated, the women baking unleavened bread 
upon inverted pans, and cooling water in skins, 
as when on a caravan journey. 

However dress, customs, or complexions may 
differ, and whether the home is a snow hut 
near the Pole or a Javanese wicker dwelling, 
fathers and mothers love and care for their lit- 
tle ones the world over; and in this universal 
love for children there was a certain kinship 
between each and all of these diverse dwellers 
in the Plaisance Wonderland. 



By Frank. H. Sweet. 

Sunshine for the robin's song, 
Night for the whippoorwill's; 

The morning hours 

For the scent of flowers 

And joyous chirps and trills; 

And all the day from dawn till night 

For warbling birds and flowers bright. 

Dark hours for the whippoorwill, 
Light for the robin's voice ; 

And all the time 

For lilting rhyme 

That makes the woods rejoice ; 

And all the time and all the hours 

For song of birds and bloom of flowers. 






g^gtifc, g, 



By Mrs. C. V. Jamison. 

Alttlwr of "Lady Jane." 

{Begun in the May number.} 

Chapter XX. 


As the winter passed away, and the days of 
early spring approached, Philip began to show 
signs of restlessness, and anxiety for a change. 
Mr. Ainsworth had spoken of going south in 
March, and Philip counted away the weeks, 
until that usually rude month, coming in like 
a lamb instead of the traditional lion, brought 
soft sunshine, with a hint of spring in the air. 

One day when Philip was taking his lesson 
in drawing, — for he had begun a regular course 
of study early in the winter, and was making 
such rapid progress that Mr. Ainsworth was 
delighted, — he looked up suddenly and said, 
with a touch of anxiety in his voice, " Shall we 
start soon now, Papa? It 's March, and you 
said we should go in March." 

"Why, Philip, are n't you contented here? 
I 'm sure it 's very pleasant. I don't feel like 
going while this fine weather lasts." 

" But, Papa, it 's time for Pere Josef to be 
back, and I must be home when he gets back." 

" Why is it so imperative that you should be 
there as soon as he is?" 

" Because I have his ' children,' and I must 
take them to him. He only left them with me 
while he was gone, and it would not be right to 
keep them after he gets back; and then there is 
something I want to ask him." 

" What is it, Philip ? What do you want to 
ask him ? " 

"About my father and mother. Mammy 
said he would tell me, and she said he had 
some papers for me." 

"Really, did she tell you that?" exclaimed 
Mr. Ainsworth, excitedly. " Why did n't you 
let me know of that before, Philip ? " 

" I did n't think of it, Papa, and it would n't 
Vol. XXL— 9. 65 

have been any use while he was away ; but now, 
if he 's back, I want to see him awfully, to ask 
him that question." 

" So do I, my dear boy. I will write to the 
priest at St. Mary's — Pere Martin, is n't he 
called? — he can tell me whether Pere Josef has 
returned, or where a letter will reach him." 

" Yes, Pere Martin will know," replied Philip, 
eagerly ; "and can't you ask him about Dea ? " 
he added softly. " I 'm anxious about Dea. 
I 'm afraid her money is all gone, and that she 
can't sell any of her father's little figures. I 
want to go back to help her." 

" My dear, I have some good news for you 
from Dea," said Mr. Ainsworth, smiling tenderly 
as he looked at the boy's flushed, earnest face. 
" I wanted to let your mama know first — it 
makes her so happy to tell you pleasant things; 
but I won't keep you waiting. I had a letter 
this morning from Mr. Detrava. You remember 
I told you about my friend who started some 
time ago for New Orleans with the idea that 
Dea's father was his brother, for whom he had 
been searching a long time. Well, he was right. 
The artist in wax is Victor Hugo Detrava, the 
only brother of my friend — and heir with him 
to a handsome fortune in France. So Dea is 
well provided for; her uncle is unmarried, and 
from his letter I can tell that he is charmed with 
his lovely little niece." 

Philip's face was a study of various emotions, 
surprise and joy predominating, while he listened 
to Mr. Ainsworth. " I 'm so glad that Dea haj 
some one to take care of her," he exclaimed, 
when the artist had finished his pleasant story. 
" And she is rich ! Now she can buy her father all 
the books he wants, how happy she will be ! I 
wish I could see her to tell her how glad I am." 

" You shall, my dear Philip. If Pere Josef is 
back we shall start for the South within a week 
or two." 




Philip was in the highest spirits. To be back 
in his old home, to see Dea and Pere Josef — 
oh, it was delightful to think of. He laughed and 
chattered incessantly, and was so excited over 
the good news that he could hardly attend to 
his lesson. He had not been happy lately. 

However, he did not care now ; he was going 
away from them — he was going home, and he 
was so merry that Lucille was more indignant 
than ever. 

"It 's no use," he thought to himself; "she 
won't ever like me, and she treats me worse 
than she does Fluff. I 've got to get even 
with her. I 've got to have some fun before 
I go." 

One day, when she returned from her airing, 
very much excited because Gladys Bleeker had 
bowed coldly to her when they met in the 
park, Philip was in the butler's pantry alone, 
huddled behind the partly closed door, with 
an air of great secrecy. Suddenly a piercing 
shriek came from the hall — not one, but a suc- 
cession of shrill screams which filled the house 
and brought Madam Ainsworth to the head 
of the stairs, pale and trembling with terror. 
Mademoiselle had jumped on to a chair, hold- 
ing her skirts around her in a most undignified 
fright. Lucille was scrambling on to the hall 
table, her hair and feathers in the wildest 
disorder, her eyes wide with fear, while from 
her parted lips issued cries which might have 
been heard a block away. 

The only brave one of the party seemed to 
be the maid, Helen, who was pursuing a tiny 
white object gliding along at the other side 
of the hall, which she was trying to belabor 
with an umbrella. But her efforts were in vain ; 
she could not hit it, and it slipped away and 
disappeared through a narrow opening in the 
door of the butler's pantry. 

"What is it — what is the matter? Lucille, 
darling, are you hurt ? " cried Madam Ains- 
worth half-way down-stairs. 

" The mice, the white mice," shrieked Lu- 
cille. " They 're in the hall, they 're running 
all over the floor. Oh ! oh ! I 'm so afraid." 

"Les souris, lespetites souris, elles sontpartoui! " 
added Mademoiselle, hysterically, as she drew 
her skirts closer around her. 

"Where are they? Oh, where are they? 

Are they running up the table-legs ? " cried 
Lucille, fairly dancing with terror. 

" Sont-elles sous la chaise?" gasped Made- 

" They 're gone," cried the victorious Helen, 
flourishing the umbrella. " They ran into the 
butler's pantry." 

" Shut the door quickly, before they get out," 
called Madam Ainsworth, as she rushed to 
Lucille and clasped her nervously. " My dear, 
my darling ! oh, oh, you are faint ! Run and 
get my vinaigrette. Quick ! quick ! fetch some 
water ; the poor child is unconscious," cried the 
old lady, as Lucille — furs, feathers, and all — tum- 
bled, a limp bundle, into her grandmama's arms. 

Yes, the poor doll had really fainted, after 
all ; she was a frail little creature. There was 
a terrible commotion ; she was laid, pale and 
crumpled, on the drawing-room sofa; and the 
coachman, who was at the door, was despatched 
for the doctor. 

Philip, not dreaming of such a tragic ending 
to his bit of mischief, felt as guilty as an assas- 
sin, as he stuffed a small white object into his 
pocket and hurriedly wound up a long black 

He was terribly frightened at the result of 
his effort " to get even " with Lucille. He felt 
that he had surpassed himself, and, without 
waiting to know the awful consequences of his 
practical joke, scuttled away to his room, where 
he threw himself on his bed, laughing and cry- 
ing at the same time. 

When the little heiress had somewhat recov- 
ered, — which was very soon, and long before the 
doctor arrived, — Bassett walked gravely into 
the drawing-room, his face as placid and impen- 
etrable as a mask, and calmly asked what had 

"Why, they went into your pantry, Bassett," 
said Madam Ainsworth, excitedly. She was 
kneeling by the sofa, rubbing the thin hands of 
the child, who had revived very suddenly from 
her unconscious condition, and was sitting up 
sipping a cordial from a tiny glass. 

" What, Madam ? What went into my pan- 
try?" asked Bassett, rubbing his hands with a 
puzzled expression. 

" Why, the mice. Helen saw them run in 
there, and you must have seen them." 

iS 93 .] 


6 7 

" I did n't see any mice in my pantry, an' I 've 
just come from there. If you '11 hallow me to 
say it, Madam, there 's some mistake." 

"What! Do you mean to say that they did 
not go in there — Philip's white mice, that he 
turned loose into the hall on purpose to frighten 
Miss Van Norcom ? " 

" Bless me ! no, Madam. Master Philip's 
white mice never put a foot in my pantry." 

" I saw them, or I 'm sure I saw one; perhaps 
it was only one," said Helen, her bright eyes 
twinkling with mischief. 

" I saw them running all over the floor," 
declared the governess, emphatically. 

" Oh ! I saw them climbing up the table-legs," 
wailed Lucille. 

" If you '11 permit me, Madam, I '11 venture 
to say that thern little hinnocent hanimals of 
Master Philip's hain't never been out of their 

" How dare you say such a thing, Bassett ! 
Do you suppose that Miss Van Norcom and the 
others are mistaken ? " exclaimed Madam Ains- 
worth, sharply. 

" By no means, Madam. If I may be allowed 
to suggest, perhaps hit was what is called an 
hoptical hillusion," returned the old man, 

" Nonsense, Bassett ! It was that trouble- 
some boy's mischief. It is getting unendura- 

" Will you hallow me to go to Master Philip's 
room, Madam ? If the little hanimals are not 
there in their cage, I '11 hadmit they are 'id in 
my pantry," and Bassett bowed and marched 
out as gravely as he had marched in. 

In a few moments he returned with an un- 
mistakable look of triumph on his placid face. 
"Hit 's just as I hexpected, Madam. Them lit- 
tle hanimals are 'uddled hup together, sound 
asleep, in their cage; and Master Philip is there 
'ard at work a-studyin' of 'is Latin." 

" It is certainly very strange," said Madam 
Ainsworth, looking mystified; "but I am not 
convinced. You can go to your pantry, Bas- 
sett; and when Miss Van Norcom is better I 
will investigate the matter." 

Bassett bowed very low, and went out with a 
little spring in his step, and a merry twinkle in 
his dull old eyes. "Bless my 'eart!" he mut- 

tered as he closed the pantry door, and gave a 
long sigh of relief, " I 've saved the little 
pickle this time ; 'e 's safe if my young lady's 
young lady don't peach. She sees 'ow it is, an' 
she 's too good to blow on the pretty little chap, 
so I think 'e 's safe to get out of a bad scrape." 

Chapter XXI. 


After dinner Mr. and Mrs. Ainsworth and 
Philip were alone in the drawing-room. The 
doctor came and spoke lightly of Lucille's 
ill turn, prescribed a simple sedative, and went 
away smiling to himself at Madam Ainsworth's 
highly colored description of the dreadful shock 
his little patient had received. She had been 
put to bed, and her grandmother would not 
leave her even to take her dinner; and as Made- 
moiselle was required to be in constant atten- 
dance, there was no one at the table but the 
three who were now together in the drawing- 

Mr. Ainsworth was looking troubled, Mrs. 
Ainsworth annoyed, and Philip strangely sub- 
dued. The high spirits had vanished, he was 
pale, and there was a suspicion of tears about 
his eyes ; he was trying to read, but from time 
to time he glanced furtively from Mr. to Mrs. 
Ainsworth, who were discussing the event of 
the afternoon. 

" It is absurd the way Lucille is encouraged 
in her silly fancies," said Mrs. Ainsworth, with 
some irritation in her voice. 

" But it was not only Lucille, my dear ; they 
all say they saw something," returned Mr. Ains- 
worth, warmly. " They could not all be mis- 
taken ; they could not all be the victims of 
' an hoptical hillusion,' as Bassett said. Helen 
declares that she saw something, and Helen is 
not one to indulge in ' nerves.' " 

" I don't know ; I can't explain it. I only 
know Philip had nothing to do with it, nor the 
'children' either," said Mrs. Ainsworth, decid- 
edly. " I was in Philip's room just before the 
outcry, and the little creatures were asleep in 
their cage, just as Bassett said. It is so unrea- 
sonable of your mother to suppose that Philip 
would let the mice out and risk losing them just 
to frighten Lucille." 




" Mama, may I go to my room ? " asked 
Philip, coming forward for his good-night kiss. 

" Certainly, my dear, if you wish to. You 
look pale ; are n't you well ? " 

" I 'm well, thank you, Mama ; but — but 
I 'm tired." 

" Don't be unhappy, my dear, about this fool- 
ish affair. I 'm sure we shall be able to con- 
vince Madam Ainsworth, when she is calmer, 
that you had nothing to do with it." 

i i wmm 


if ti 




i 11 






Philip hesitated a moment, with an appealing 
look at Mrs. Ainsworth, and then, kissing her 
again with much warmth, he went out silently. 

The two remained in deep thought for some 
time; then Mr. Ainsworth said with conviction: 
" Philip knows more about this than we think 
he does. I can tell by his manner that he has 
something on his mind." 

" My dear, you are becoming strangely like 

your mother with your absurd suspicions," ex- 
claimed Mrs. Ainsworth. " How could the 
mice be asleep in their cage and be running 
about the hall at the same time ? I 'm not sur- 
prised at your mother's unreasonableness: she 
dislikes the poor boy, and takes every means of 
showing it by her unkind accusations. But for 
you to suspect Philip, — you who know how 
truthful he is ! " 

" Did he say he knew no- 
thing about it?" asked Mr. 
Ainsworth, cautiously. 

" I did not ask him. I would 
not hurt him so much as to 
him think that I doubted 
word. All he said was 
that the mice were not 
out of their cage, and 
I know he spoke the 
j "Well, Laura, 

we won't discuss 
it any more; but 
if I find that 
Philip is keeping 
anything back, I 
shall be greatly 
disappointed in 
him — for he 's 
not the boy I 
thought he was." 
" There is no 
reason why he should 
keep anything back," 
rejoined Mrs. Ains- 
worth firmly, determined 
to defend Philip to the last ; 
'' he is very brave, and not at 
all afraid to tell the truth. He is 
always willing to bear the consequences of 
his little pranks. He is never malicious, only 
mischievous; and where others would laugh at 
his harmless tricks, your mother treats them as 
if they were crimes. If you listen to your 
mother, she will succeed in turning you against 
the poor little fellow. Even now I think you 
have changed toward him: he does not interest 
you as he did." 

" Now, my dear, you are unjust. I have not 
changed; I love Philip dearly, but I am not 



6 9 

blind to his faults, and I do think he is a 
little — just a little — malicious toward Lucille. 
Would n't it be better to speak to him gently, 
and warn him not to play any more practical 
jokes on that nervous, foolish child? Mother 
is so displeased, it will end in making trouble 
between us if it goes on, and you must see 
how unpleasant that would be." 

" If I should reprove Philip, it would be 
treating the matter seriously; and it would be 
equivalent to admitting that I doubted his 
word. I am not disposed to make mountains 
out of mole-hills. The only thing for us to do 
is to take the boy away as soon as possible. 
We can never be happy here with him; your 
mother's dislike to him is unaccountable." And 
Mrs. Ainsworth got up and paced the floor, 
flushed and indignant. 

" Don't excite yourself, Laura dear," said 
Mr. Ainsworth, soothingly ; " as soon as we 
hear that the priest is back, we will start for 
New Orleans, and we may learn something 
from him about the boy that will relieve us of 
all responsibility." 

Mrs. Ainsworth said no more, but she felt 
very dissatisfied and unhappy. Already her 
assumed duties were pressing rather heavily 
upon her, and for the first time she regretted 
that they had been so hasty — that they had 
not considered more seriously the importance 
of the step they had taken. 

The next morning, quite early, Madam Ains- 
worth heard a timid knock at her door; and 
on opening it she was surprised to see Philip 
standing there very pale but very resolute. It 
was the first time that he had intruded upon 
the privacy of her apartment, and she felt that 
the visit must therefore betoken something of 

The boy's blue eyes were timid and appeal- 
ing in expression, although his lips were firm, 
his shoulders erect, and his manly little figure 
full of courage. 

" If you please, Madam, may I come in ? 
I want to tell you something," he said in a very 
gentle, subdued voice. 

" Certainly, come in," replied Madam Ains- 
worth, coldly. " I 'm very busy this morning, 
but I will listen to what you have to say"; and 
she seated herself with dignity at her writing- 

table, and began opening her letters with a 
business-like air. 

" I want to tell you about yesterday," said 
Philip, his face crimsoning and his lips quiver- 
ing. " It would n't be right not to tell you. I 
would have told last night only for Mr. Butler. 
I don't want you to blame him; he was n't to 
blame, he did n't know about it. I hid behind 
his pantry door, when he was out. He did n't 
even help me make it ; he never saw it. You 
won't blame him, will you ? " and Philip looked 
imploringly into the severe face before him. 

" Oh, Bassett was not an accomplice, then ? " 
said Madam Ainsworth, a touch of sarcasm in 
her voice. 

" He did n't know until after it was done, but 
he said he would stand by me. I don't mind 
for myself, — you can punish me good, — but 
poor Mr. Butler Bassett, I like him, and I 
don't want him punished." 

" Oh, I see ! You are great friends," said the 
old lady, grimly. " Well, go on with your in- 
teresting developments; I don't in the least 
understand what mischievous tricks you were 
up to." 

Philip winced a little, but he pulled himself 
together, determined to tell the whole truth. 
" Why, you see, Lucille was so cross to me that 
I wanted — I wanted to pay her off. I wanted 
to frighten her, but I did n't want to make her 
ill. I would n't hurt her for the world ; I 
would n't hurt any girl, even if she did — even 
if she did curl her lip at me, so I just thought 
it would be fun to make something like a 
mouse run across the floor." 

" Then there truly was something" exclaimed 
Madam Ainsworth, triumphantly. 

" Yes, there was ; they did see something, 
but it was n't one of the ' children.' " 

" What was it ? " asked the old lady, impa- 

" Why, it was a mouse, but not a live mouse. 
I made it out of wool, and put on a little tail 
of tape, and the two eyes were jet beads off 
of Mademoiselle's fringe. I tied a long black 
thread to it and put it in the hall just where 
Lucille would see it when she came in, and 
I made it jump quickly by jerking the thread, 
and when I had frightened them well I pulled 
it into the pantry. Helen tried to kill it with 




the umbrella, but she could n't get a hit at it. 
Then Lucille fainted, and Mr. Butler came in 
and told me to run up the back stairs. So 
you see that was why I said it was n't one of 
the ' children ' " ; and Philip drew a long breath 
of relief now that he had unburdened his con- 
science, and waited timidly for the result of his 

now that I did it. I 'm very sorry that it made 
Lucille ill. And I came to ask you to for- 
give me." 

" Forgive you ! Indeed I shall do nothing of 
the kind. I shall insist on your being punished 
severely. You must be taught that you can't 
trifle in this way with me," said Madam Ains- 
worth, indignantly. 



" Really, really! — what deception, what false- 
hood ! " exclaimed Madam Ainsworth, angrily; 
" and Edward has boasted of the boy's truth- 

" It was n't a falsehood," returned Philip, 
proudly; "I never tell lies. It was only a — 
a mistake. It was because I went in Mr. But- 
ler's pantry, and I did n't want him blamed — 
that 's why I did n't tell at first. I 'm very sorry 

" Well, I don't mind," replied Philip, bravely. 
" You can punish me; only, please don't blame 
Mr. Butler." 

" I shall settle with Bassett at my leisure, and 
I shall order him to take those little vermin out 
of the house immediately." 

"What vermin? You don't mean Pere Jo- 
sef's ' children,' do you ? " asked Philip, in a 
horrified voice. "They 're not vermin; they 're 

i8 93 .] 


just as good and quiet, and they 're neat, too. 
I keep their cage as clean as can be. Oh, you 
don't mean that they must go ! " 

l; I certainly do. I have had enough trouble 
since you brought the horrid little things here. 
I shall give the order to have them taken away 
at once. I don't care what becomes of them," 
and Madam Ainsworth turned toward her table 
as if she had settled the matter definitely. 

" Oh, Madam, please don't send them away. 
I can't let them go. Pere Josef left them in 
my care. Oh, please, please don't! " and Philip 
in an agony of entreaty laid his hand on Ma- 
dam Ainsworth's arm, and looked into her 
face imploringly. 

" It 's no use to make a fuss. I will not 
allow them to stay in my house ; that is final. 
Now you may go. I 'm too busy to be troubled 
with such nonsense." And the indignant old 
lady shook off the little hand angrily. 

Poor Philip ! he had never dreamed of such 
a dreadful punishment ; he was desperately in 
earnest now, and entirely overcome by fear and 
sorrow, he burst into tears, and clasping his 
hands passionately, made a last, most pathetic 

" They 're so little ! They don't know any one 
but me ; they '11 be afraid of strangers ; they 
may starve, they may get lost, and they can't 
find their way home ; and what will Pere Josef 
say when he sees me if I don't bring his ' chil- 
dren ' back ? I promised to take care of them, 
and I can't if you send them away. I love them 
so, they are so little and cunning, and they love 
me. They 're all I 've got to care for. Don't 
send them away, please don't ! We 're going 
home soon; please let them stay with me till we 
go ! Oh, please do, and I '11 be so grateful. 


I '11 try to be good ; I won't tease Lucille again. 
I '11 be so glad if you '11 let them stay] " 

Suddenly Madam Ainsworth started from her 
chair and looked at the boy almost in ter- 
ror. Something in his pitiful pleading voice 
pierced her to the heart. It was a note of 
childish sorrow that she had heard long ago, 
and it softened her instantly. Hot tears sprang 
to her eyes, and for a moment she could not 
regain her self-control. At length she said, in 
a voice that trembled in spite of her effort to 
make it sound harsh : 

"There, there, child! — that will do. Don't 
go on as if you were insane. If your heart is so 
set on those horrid little creatures, keep them, 
and oblige me by never speaking of them again. 
Now wipe your eyes and go to your room, and 
in the future try to treat Lucille properly." 

" Oh, thank you, thank you ! " cried Philip, 
rapturously, a sudden smile breaking over his 
face like a ray of sunlight in the midst of rain. 
" I '11 never forget how good you are, and you 
won't blame Mr. Butler, will you ? " he added 

" I '11 consider it," she said ; " he deserves to 
be reproved, but for your sake I may overlook 
his fault." Madam Ainsworth had never be- 
fore spoken so gently to the boy. At that 
moment she longed to take him in her arms 
and hold him to her heart, but she allowed him 
to leave the room without any further indica- 
tion of favor. The proud old soul felt that 
she had made concessions enough for one day, 
so she resolutely held herself in check — only 
thinking as her eyes followed the happy little 
fellow : " It certainly is very strange. The boy 
quite unnerved me. I really felt for a moment 
as though he belonged to me." 

( To be continued. ) 

Misery loves com- 
pany. Misery is a brin- 
dled cat, and Company is 
a big Newfoundland dog. 

They were raised, and lived very happily 
for some years, in a shanty high up on the 
rocks of a vacant block in Harlem ; but times 
have changed with them now, and they are in 
a fair way to become tramps in the wide world 
of unclaimed cats and dogs. 

Some days ago the people of the shanty 
were forced to move away, and a blacksmith's 
shop was built upon the rocks ; then a wagon- 
load of large steam-drills was hoisted up and 
piled alongside of it; and in a few months a 

would have be- 
gun before now if 
it were not for the 
children in the neighborhood, who have so 
far kept them supplied with bones and pieces 
of meat and bread — for Company is one of 
those great, big good-natured dogs that would 
not harm a mouse, and he has made many 
friends among the little boys and girls near 
by, whom he is always ready to play tag with, 
or even to ride around upon his back. 

During school hours Misery and Company 
pass their time very quietly together, wonder- 
ing what has become of their owners, and wan- 
dering about over the rocks in search of them. 



row of tall modern houses will stand in the 
little shanty's place. 

When the owners moved away, they left Mis- 
ery and Company all alone to take care of 
themselves as best they could; and their trial 

At night they crawl under the shanty, and Mis- 
ery curls herself up close against Company and 
goes to sleep, as a kitten does with its mother. 

Company is always first to wake up in the 
morning, but he is careful not to disturb Mis- 



ery until she begins to stretch herself and is 
ready to rise ; then she walks around him, 
rubbing herself against him and purring, as if 
to say, " Come, let 's take a walk " ; and they 
start off together, side by side, for a ramble be- 
fore breakfast. 

As Company's legs are very long, Misery 
finds it hard work to keep step, and it is very 
funny, as they are trotting along together, to 
see Company looking down sideways at Mis- 
ery with a great deal of admiration, but still 
in a reproachful sort of way, as if he were say- 
ing, " Why don't you keep step ? " 

Although Company never minds however 
roughly the children may play with him, he is 
very jealous and uneasy if any one of them 
tries to catch Misery ; he will then give a gruff understand very clearly to mean, " That 
kind of a bark, which the boys and girls all cat, and you must be very careful of her. 


s my 


By Etheldred Breeze Barry. 

" Hooray ! hooray ! 
G. A. ! G. A. ! 
Grantonville Academee-i-a ! " 

The school-cheer rings out across the play- 
ground, and is echoed by the old stone walls 
of the Academy. The big boys stamp and 
shout, and the small boys dance and scream, 
but accomplish little save giving themselves 
sore throats. In the middle of the playground 
Vol. XXI.—io. 

is a swaying mass of boys in canvas jackets ; 
good fellows, all of them, with kind hearts and 
generous souls, yet each one feeling an intense 
longing and desire to tear his opponent to pieces 
and demolish him generally if it will in any way 
help his side to gain possession of the ball in 
the center of the group. As it sways one way 
or another the crowd on the fences becomes 
excited, and the "rah-rahs" resound again and 




again. Occasionally a favorite will be cheered, 
and cries of " Go it, Harvey ! " " Hooray, 
Wentworth ! " or " Mind yourself, Warder ! " 
are added to the general din. 

"Stumpy Wentworth is the best man we 
have," remarks one onlooker, enthusiastically. 

" I '11 wager Warder can beat him," says 
a young gentleman in a Norfolk jacket. He 
carries a whip in his hand and a straw in his 
mouth, and there is a neat little horse tied to 
a tree down by the janitor's house. It is Wil- 
ling, the school sport. 

" Oh, no ! Wentworth can walk all over 
Warder," responds Dodson, the first speaker. 
" There 's not a rusher like him this side of the 
river, and — Rah, rah, rah! — look there, will 
you ! " and the crowd becomes a shouting, cap- 
tossing mass of excited boys ; for away in the 
middle of the playground the scrimmage has 
suddenly broken up, and one figure, with torn 
stocking and bare head, is making for the far- 
ther goal with the ball under his arm. After 
him come the others, some close on his heels, 
others edging off toward the sides, but the sturdy 
legs keep on their way and cover the ground at 
a sprinting rate. He is a thick-set, broad-shoul- 
dered fellow. His way seems clear enough, 
but now the goal-keepers rush forward and, 
in a tough and solid little group, strive to 
oppose him. 

"Swerve, Wentworth! — dodge 'em! dodge 
'em ! " is the advice yelled after him by the 
excited spectators. But Wentworth cannot 
swerve: dodging is not in his line. Harrison 
there can keep a whole crowd in play by his 
twists and doubles, but Wentworth must keep 
straight ahead when once he is started. So 
he settles his head well down, squares his 
shoulders, and rushes right into the middle of 
the goal-keepers. They clutch at him and try 
to stop him, but he shoots past them, and in a 
minute has made a touch-down behind the 
goal, and the game is won. 

" Rah, rah, rah ! " shriek the boys. " Rah, 
Wentworth, rah, rah, rah ! " They break up 
into little groups and run across the playground 
toward the school-house, where the hero of the 
hour is sitting on the pump-trough bathing a 
bleeding nose with somebody's grimy handker- 
chief, kindly lent for the occasion. 

"That was great, old man!" cries Dodson; 
and Willing adds, " Finest thing I ever saw. 
He 's a trump, Dodsey, I must admit." And 
the chums move off. 

It was only a practice game, to test the 
strength of the team before facing the High 
School, and we would have you understand, 
kind reader, that theirs is supposed to be the 
best school team in the county, yet we hope and 
expect next Saturday to "jump on them with 
all four feet," as our captain puts it, if they are 
three years our senior, and wear apologies for 
mustaches. And if our hopes and expectations 
are realized, we shall be the champion team of 
the county. 

Although young for the position of "half- 
back," Neil Wentworth fills it admirably. He 
has always been a favorite with his schoolmates, 
and now his popularity has been heightened by 
his plucky rush, as is shown by the way in 
which they cluster and crowd around him on 
the strip of lawn dividing the school from the 
janitor's house, where his pony is hitched, a 
chunky, cobby little creature — like his master. 
The pony has been using his idle time in try- 
ing to pick a quarrel with Norton Willing's 
graceful thoroughbred, and challenging him, 
with gleaming eyes and frisky back hoofs, to 
" Come over here and have it out ! " Neil 
slips into the saddle, and pony and master pass 
through the gate while the school-cheer is 
raised again : 

" Hooray ! hooray ! 

G. A. ! G. A. ! 

Grantonville Academee-i-a ! " 

Over the smooth road-bed speeds Neil, his 
head filled with thoughts of the coming Satur- 
day. As he turns in at the gate he meets his 
mother, who looks relieved upon seeing him. 

" Oh, Neil ! " she begins, but stops short at 
sight of her son's battered visage. " Why, my 
dear boy, have you been fighting ? Just look 
at your nose ! " 

" That is more than I can do, Mother," re- 
sponds Neil, lightly; "but I can guess pretty 
well what its appearance must be without mak- 
ing myself cross-eyed. No, I have not been 
fighting; I have been playing foot-ball." 

" Oh, Neil, Neil ! I wish you would give up 




foot-ball ; it is such a savage game. I have 
been watching for you for over an hour; your 
father wants you to go somewhere for him." 

As the boy turns to go in she stops him once 

"Your stocking is badly torn. Did you 
know it?" 

He squints at his sturdy calf over his shoul- 
der, and remarks quietly : 

"Oh, yes! 'Peanuts' — I mean McDermot 
— tore it in a scrimmage. He had on spiked 
baseball shoes, and was disqualified." 

Mrs. Wentworth sighs. 

" Oh, my dear boy, must you play such wild- 
Indian games to be happy ? I am constantly 
expecting you to be brought home killed. But 
run up to your father now ; he is waiting." 

Neil bounds up the stairway, and then steps 
more quietly as he nears the study door. His 
father, a gray-haired, gray-bearded man with 
hollow cheeks and bent form, is pacing the 
floor. As he turns to meet his robust son they 
make a queer contrast. 

" I have been looking for you, Neil. Where 
have you been ? " 

" At the school, Father, playing foot-ball." 

" Humph, foot-ball.' — when I have been 
waiting and waiting for you to attend to a 
most important matter for me ! " 

Neil heartily apologizes, but his father laughs 
good-naturedly and bids him sit down; and 
Neil seats himself beside a table covered with 
maps, drawings, and drawing instruments, for 
his father is a railroad-builder and contractor. 

" Now, Neil," he begins, " give me your full 
attention, for this is a most important matter, 
and will stand no botching. Now listen : 

" We are, as you know, building a new road 

to connect the New York and H with the 

Grantonville branch, and there are about one 
hundred or one hundred and fifty men em- 
ployed on it. Mr. Falconer is the overseer of 
the gang, and he lives, temporarily, in that little 
house about a mile and a half this side of the 
new road. Perhaps you know the house; it is 
on the Gloucester Pike not far from the old 
mill-dam that burst two or three years ago ? " 

Neil nods, and his father goes on : 

" This is pay-day, and I promised Falconer 
to meet him at this house with the men's money. 

I find I am unable to go, as my cough has been 
increasing all day, and so I must send you ; for 
if the men should not get their wages, there 
would be trouble. Now I am going to give 
you three hundred dollars, and you must be 
careful not to lose it. Take Thomas with you 
in the carryall or buggy, for there have been 
several men discharged lately, and they have 
been hanging about in the woods for the last 
few days. If they saw you alone they might 
be up to some mischief, knowing you are my 
son, and thinking you might have the money 
about you. Now go at once, and drive quickly; 
for I should like Falconer to have this as soon 
as possible. Put the money in the inside 
pocket of your vest, and give Falconer this 
note. Don't lose a moment, or Falconer will 
not get to the railroad in time; and hurry back, 
for I shall be anxious." 

Neil takes the money and the note and runs 
down the back stairs and across the garden to 
the stable, where his pony still stands in the 
shed. He calls loudly for Thomas, but one 
of the maids tells him that the coachman has 
gone to the blacksmith with both horses. 

Part II. 

" Well, there is no use crying over spilled 
milk, Rollo," Neil says to the little cob. " You 
and I must go alone." He vaults into the sad- 
dle, and they clatter out of the stable-yard and 
down the street. It is a long road he has to 
travel ; yet, tired as he is with his day's play, he 
enjoys it, for the November air is keen and 
bracing. He rides rapidly and freely, giving 
the little nag his own way, so that they swerve 
merrily from one side of the road to the other ; 
for Rollo has not been playing foot-ball, and 
has a great deal of curiosity. But his inquiring 
mind soon gets him and his master into trou- 
ble, for, seeing a squirrel dart down the bank at 
the side of the road, he attempts to follow it, 
and, before Neil can pull him up, is flounder- 
ing among the briers and loose stones in the 
dried-up bed of the old mill-race. 

" Well, if you are n't Cranky ! What on 
earth did you come down here for — Hello, 
what 's this?" 

For Rollo has stumbled slightly. Then, 

7 6 



with a low whinny, he sticks his fore leg out. 
Neil dismounts and feels it, but is not wise 
enough to know what is the matter., and he leads 
the limping horse up the embankment and along 
the road. It is slow work, for Rollo refuses to 
do more than creep, and makes the most of his 
affliction, so that the short distance between him 
and Falconer's cottage seems a mile to poor 
Neil. As he nears the door, the overseer's wife 
runs out to meet him. 

" Oh, Master Wentworth, did you come from 
your father? Mr. Wentworth did n't come, and 
so my husband has gone on to the railroad. 
He supposed he would find your father over 
there. He was dreadfully flustered. Won't 
you come in and rest awhile? " 

Neil draws a long whistle. " Here is a pretty 
kettle of fish ! " he exclaims. " I can 't come in, 
thank you. Father was unable to come this 
afternoon, so he sent me with a note to Mr. 
Falconer, and now you say he is gone, and I 
have missed him." He walks along the path- 
way and looks up the road. With hard riding 
he might overtake the overseer, but his horse 
is disabled, and that is out of the question. 
There is no way of getting the money to the 
men unless he walks; and he thinks of what his 
father told him about the discharged employees 
lurking about in the woods. He has read in 
the newspapers time and again how desperate 
these men become, and one thrilling account 
which made a deep impression on him at the 
time, comes forcibly into his mind, — of a fore- 
man who was waylaid in a lonely spot, beaten, 
and robbed of the pay of three hundred men, 
which he carried with him. He thinks for a 
moment. — The men must have their money; 
his father had said there would be trouble if 
they did not get it, and he is the only one who 
can take it to them, and the road through the 
woods is the only way, so he turns back to the 

" I think I will go on and overtake him," he 
announces to the woman who stands waiting in 
the doorway, " if you will be so good as to 
keep my horse until I send for him. It is only 
a mile and a half, and I can easily get to the 
railroad by half-past five." 

" Well," she says, reluctantly ; " only I don't 
like your goin' through the lonely woods so 

late in the afternoon. There are tramps there, 
some says. Is it anything special ? " 

" Yes, it is. My father gave me some direc- 
tions for Mr. Falconer." He thinks it best not 
to mention the money. " If your son could rub 
down Rollo for me I 'd be very much obliged 
to him. I don't believe he is much hurt, and 
I '11 send Thomas over for him this evening." 

So he turns away. He has little fear of meet- 
ing the men ; had he been driving they might 
have been attracted by the sound of the wheels, 
but, as Falconer has gone on before, they will 
hardly interfere with him. He tries to put 
them out of his mind, and turns all his mind 
toward his foot-ball success. The ground is . 
firm and hard beneath his feet, and as he steps 
briskly along his thoughts are reveling in a 
boyish day-dream of a long line of conquests 
at foot-ball: first of all the Academy Team 
made County Team through his efforts. And, 
I regret to say, the prospect is more enticing 
than that of any scholastic achievement would 
have been. 

A crackling of the bushes beside him puts an 
end to his vision, and he turns sharply about to 
face an Italian in laborer's clothes. 

"Whata time is it, ifa you please ? " says the 
man, coming forward. 

"The usual beginning," thinks Neil, with a 
little thrill of pleasurable excitement along his 
backbone. Then he says aloud : " I have n't 
my watch with me; sorry I can't oblige you." 

"You Meestare Wentworth hees son ? " con- 
tinues the workman. 

" I am. What can I do for you ? " 

The Italian's face darkens. 

"Meestare Wentworth he taka ma moneys 
away from me." 

" I am sorry to hear it," says Neil with ex- 
cessive politeness, anxious to keep in the man's 
good graces. " I shall ask him to pay it back 

He tries to pass orT, but the Italian says 
angrily, " You goa too fast ! " and stepping 
briskly forward he clutches Neil by the shoul- 
ders, but the boy breaks away from him and 
runs down the road a little distance. When he 
looks back the Italian has vanished, and all is 

" That fellow means mischief," he thinks, " or 




he would not have given in so easily " ; and he 
walks cautiously on. 

Just ahead of him the pike makes a sudden 
bend, and when he reaches the elbow he sees 
four men (one of them the Italian) standing in 
the middle of the roadway, about a hundred 
yards away. Neil sees it all : the Italian and 
his comrades have made a short cut through 
the woods with the intention of heading him 
off. What to do he does not know. Turn 
back he will not ; besides, they could easily run 
through the woods and head him off again. 
He might take to the woods himself, but four 
of them, who know the neighborhood far better 
than he, could easily trap him and run him 
down, for, as I told you, Wentworth is no 
dodger. His only chance lies in passing them 
where they, stand, by strategy or force. Sud- 
denly a bright thought strikes him : Why not 
" rush " ? He has beaten his way through the 
school goal-keepers, and are these workmen, 
who have been loafing for weeks, likely to 
prove any tougher than the young athletes who 
have been training constantly all the fall ? To 
be sure, the game is more serious, for, should 
they manage to stop and hold him, he knows 
perfectly well his life may not be worth six- 
pence. They suspect (if they do not knoiv) 
that he has the money with him, and if they 
are desperate enough to rob they might never 
let him go free to inform on them afterward. 
Besides, Neil valiantly makes up his mind that 
they never shall have the money .unless they do 
kill him first. 

Never did Wentworth prepare for a foot-ball 
tussle as carefully as he prepares for this — per- 
haps his last — rush. He pulls up his stockings 
and tightens his belt, while vivid pictures of 
home and school life pass before his eyes : his 
father, with his pale and thoughtful face ; his 
mother's plump and trim-looking little figure; 
the baby with her yellow curls; and the dear 
old school with its crowds of merry boys on 
the playground. And in his ears rings the 
advice an old player gave him when he first 
entered upon his foot-ball career : 

" Remember, it is not merely brute strength 
that wins a game, but the scientific use of your 
strength. And keeping your wits about you 
is half the battle." 

Then he starts toward the men on a trot, 
while they, unable to divine his purpose, are 
uncertain as to what they had better do, and 
stand watching him in perplexity. Within 
twenty yards of them he increases his speed 
and bears down upon them. Now they seem 
to understand, for they string themselves out 
across the roadway, and, with shouts and ges- 
ticulations, try to head him off. Head him off? 
They might as well attempt to stop a whirl- 
wind or a locomotive. They think he will 
dodge, but he never swerves to right or left. 
His practised eye tells him which is the weak- 
est man, and he makes for him with a steadi- 
ness and a fearlessness that surprise the ruf- 
fians. But they are desperate men, who do 
not intend to let him outwit them, and as he 
meets them they rush together in a group and 
clutch at him. 

" It is science against brute force," thinks 
Neil exultantly, and he wonders at himself for 
being so cool. The Italian is nearest to him, 
and as he tries to stop him, he remembers a 
little trick by which he has " downed " more 
than one player on the school-house grounds. 
Placing his open palm on the man's forehead, 
he gives his head a sudden backward twist 
which takes his breath away and throws him 
heavily to the ground. The others are upon 
Neil in an instant, and one, a burly Hungarian, 
clasps him about the waist. It means life or 
death now, and Neil's heart beats fast, but he 
keeps his wits about him. Grasping his adver- 
sary by the hips as they stand face to face, he 
leans slightly backward as though about to fall ; 
then, with a sudden unexpected turn, making 
himself a pivot, he swings the clumsy fellow 
around, and in an instant has him underneath. 
Now he leans quickly forward, and as the Hun- 
garian unclasps one hand to save himself from 
the inevitable fall, Neil springs away and bounds 
along the road. Seeing the two men thrown, 
the third hesitates and lets Neil pass him, and 
now only one man is ahead. Our hero, in- 
stead of attempting to dodge him, butts into 
him with such force that the man almost loses 
his balance, and lets him go. He has out- 
witted four men, and has not struck a single 

As he runs over the hard road they hotly 



pursue him, but he knows they have no chance 
once he is ahead. Stones rattle about him and 
angry voices follow him, but the danger is past. 
Fortunately they have no pistols, and the knife 
which the enraged Italian hurls after Neil falls 
harmlessly to the ground ten or twelve feet 
behind him. 

Fifteen minutes later Neil hands the money 
to the despairing Falconer, who is just on the 

point of telling the men that Mr. Wentworth 
has not come, and that they must go home 
without their wages. 

Neil Wentworth is captain of a college foot- 
ball team now, and his fame as a rusher is wide- 
spread. Many an exciting run has he made 
while thousands applauded ; yet in all his ca- 
reer no rush stands out with such startling dis- 
tinctness as the one on the old Gloucester Pike. 


By John Kendrick Bangs. 

I wonder if there 's anywhere 

A little fairy flock 
So small a grain of sand seems like 

A great big piece of rock ? 

I wonder, too, when I 'm a man, 

And not a little tike, 
If I shall have the luck to be 

The sort of man I like. 







" Dear Merrythought ! How can I let you 
go! — how can I let you go!" And thirteen- 
year-old Nan sobbed and cried and ran into 
the house, while Farmer Katch pence turned 
to look pityingly after his daughter, saying : 
" Poor young one ! she did love the critter, 
and she ought ter keep it ; but the folks down 
in Boston will have Thanksgivin', and what 
would Thanksgivin' be without turkey, I 'd like 
ter know ? And then there 's the money — we 
must have the money ! " and this consideration 
sealed the fate of Merrythought; and up went 
Nan to her little room to " bawl it out by her- 
self," as big brother Jack said, with an air of 
what he called dignity. 

In the garret window of an old farm-house, 
away up amid the hills of Vermont, sat Nan, 
not sobbing and crying, but truly " bawling it 
out by herself," as Jack had said. Here was 
Merrythought, the pet that she had watched 
over, tended, and loved all the summer, called 
to meet a tragic end which we can believe 
never occurred to him, but did cast a shadow 
over the loving heart of Nan. Somehow she 
had felt that when November came, perhaps 
Merrythought would be spared; there might be 
enough without him. But that great American 
factor, " How much is he worth?" had taken 
hold of the Vermont farmer, and since Merry- 
thought was a little better in every way for the 
good care Nan had given him, it was felt that 

By L. J. Sanderson. 

he was worth more than any of the other turkeys. 
He met his end with Turkish fortitude, and 
Nan — poor Nan! — was trying to bear it with 
equal fortitude down below the sobbing and 

II. The Note. 

" I 'll do it ! Yes, I will do it," thought Nan, 
and she hunted about in the dim old room to 
find something to write upon ; but nothing was 
to be found except brown wrapping-paper, for 
stationery was a luxury unknown to the farmer's 

With a stubby pencil Nan wrote on the 
brown paper these words : 

This is Merrythought, my pet turkey. I have taken 
care of him all summer. I feel awful bad to have him 
go. He is sweet, and tender, and nice, / no, but I wud 
like to no for sure if he eats well, and how much money 
you had to pay to get him. Please will you rite and 
tell me. Nan Katchpexce, Upland, Vermont. 

Down the stairs Nan glided, for she was 
lighter of heart now, and into the kitchen she 
went, for she was the eldest girl in a large 
family, and the little maid of all work. There 
was no time for loitering at this busy season, 
and down sat Nan amidst the heap of turkeys 
waiting for the finishing touches of her deft 
hands. Each separate feather plucked from 
Merrythought was a separate tug at her heart- 
strings; but the bawling had turned to bravery, 
for was n't there something waiting in her 
pocket to travel away with the brightest, bon- 
niest, and best of all turkeys ? When the 




golden moment came, as come it always does 
when we are bent on loving deeds, Nan's hand 
tenderly tucked beneath one of Merrythought's 
wings, the crumpled, brown-paper note. 



" Och, shure, Missus ! what cur'us thing is 
this the knowin' burrd's brought under his 
arrm ! — nately done up wid brown paper ! 
Och ! och ! " And Bridget stood in the din- 
ing-room door where innocent Merrythought 
lay on a platter, with the mysterious crumpled 
brown-paper note beside him. 

Mrs. Goodheart took the crumpled paper, 
read what Nan had written, and said, " There 's 
no harm, Bridget; it is only a note about the 
turkey from the little girl who had it for a 
pet. I will keep it till Mr. Goodheart comes 
to dinner." 

A few hours later, at a bountifully spread 
table in this beautiful house sat the genial Mr. 
Goodheart and his good wife. Beside his plate 
lay the crumpled note. "Ah, what 's this, my 
dear ? " and he read the scribbling upon the 
brown paper. " Well ! well ! Ha, ha ! " and 
he laughed heartily. " Nan has an eye to 
business ; we must look into this matter after 
Thanksgiving, if Merrythought 'eats well,' as 
no doubt he will after all the loving care he 
has had." 

Thanksgiving Day had come. Folks big 
and little had gathered around the table where 
Merrythought, handsomely browned and gar- 
nished, lay in state, " the observed of all ob- 
servers." All knew the story of far-away Nan 
and her pet, and all were anxiously waiting to 
know if Merrythought " eats well." Skilfully 
the genial host cut first a wing, then a leg, 
next the breast, and now the merrythought, 
which the two little folks hung up to dry, for 
by and by they would wish all sorts of good 
things for little Nan upon this tiny bringer of 
good luck. 

After much chattering and laughing, Mrs. 
Goodheart said, " Who '11 write to Nan?" And 
one said, " Oh ! I don't like to write," and 
another said, " I can, but I do hate to write," 
and another said, "/ know who '11 write the 
best letter"; and it was agreed that Auntie, who 

could write a letter " with her eyes shut," as 
one of the boys said, should write what the 
children wanted to know. "Ask her how old 
she is," said one. "Ask her how many bro- 
thers and sisters she has," said another, " and 
what they are named." " Tell her he made a 
mighty good dinner." " Ask if she goes to 
school and church, and what kind of games 
she plays." " Tell her we want to know all 
about her, and how sorry we are she had to 
give up her pet; but tell her he 'eats well' — 
oh, he eats beautifully." " Tell her how sorry 
we are that he did n't have four legs instead 
of two, because there was so muchy-much on 
a leg." "Tell her we '11 keep the merrythought 
till she comes after it" — and Auntie's head 
whizzed and buzzed with ideas which flew 
from all directions. But soon the letter was 
on its journey to make glad the sad heart of 
little Nan. 



There was a great bustle and commotion at 
the home of Farmer Katchpence the week fol- 
lowing Thanksgiving. A neighbor had gone 
four miles to town early in the morning, had 
collected the letters and done the errands for 
the neighborhood, and on his return stopped 
outside the gate and called, "Nan! Nan! 
Where be yer ? — where be yer ? The postmaster 
says he thinks this must be yours, but no one 
in the village can understand it. Mebbe it 's a 
mistake, but sartain that 's yer name." It was 
almost an unheard-of thing for the Katchpence 
family to have a letter. " They don't seem to 
belong to anybody," some one had said ; and 
true it was that an excitement prevailed which 
we, who receive letters daily from the hands 
of the letter-carrier, cannot understand. 

Nan left her floor-mopping to take the letter. 
The father, mother, and all the children gath- 
ered about her; each in turn took the letter, 
looked at the writing, the post-mark, the stamp, 
the six lines which reached from the Boston 
postmark to the postage-stamp, felt it, turned it 
on the other side, then back again, and looked 
at Nan, and wondered how she could have a 
letter written on such beautiful paper, and 
bearing the mark of Boston ; but there was the 




fact, Nan's name written in full, and there was match, and in each right-hand comer a " brand- 
no other Nan Katchpence in Upland. Nan new stamp never used before," as Jack, poor 
trembled with excitement. She sank down, fellow, said a little enviously, for he had never 
saying, "It is from Merrythought. I kneio I had anything, from the crown of his head to 
should hear from him ! " and then she confessed the soles of his feet, that had n't been used 
to the family how she had hidden the brown- before ? 


paper note beneath the turkey's wing. She 
opened the letter, each taking a turn at the 
reading, and Nan first laughed and then cried, 
so happy was she to know Merrythought had 
fallen among such kind folk. 

All was gladness in the farm-house now — 
father and mother and all were so proud of 
Nan's Boston friends ; and friends they were, for 
had they not asked her to come to Boston 
some time — when she had been to school a 
little longer, and could spell well and write 
better ; and had n't they sent her the beautiful 
paper with pictures on it and envelops to 
Vol. XXL— ii. 

Little Nan studied hard at school, and the 
letters that she wrote to Boston were showing 
signs of it ; the words were written more evenly, 
and the spelling was more correct, than in the 
Thanksgiving letter. And each time she wrote 
she tried so hard to have it just right; and she 
was writing often in these days, for there came 
to her many tender messages and loving 
thoughts at Christmas-time, and later on, at 
Saint Valentine's and Easter, pretty handker- 
chiefs, ribbons, and cards. And when the 
warm days came, two pretty summer gowns 
and a " love " of a hat were sent to Nan. 




Every one was glad for little Nan; all the 
neighbors shared in her happiness ; the post- 
master felt somehow as if he were the cause 
of her happiness, because he handled all those 
welcome letters and parcels first. 

And one glorious day, as Nan's father re- 
turned from the village, where he had been to 
sell butter of Nan's own making, he bore in his 
hand the letter which contained the money for 
Nan to go to Boston. Could it be possible 
that she — Nan, who had never had anything, 
nor ever been anywhere — held in her hand 
an invitation to visit those kind friends, and the 
money to buy her ticket to Boston ? Was she 
asleep and dreaming, or was it really true ? 

V. nan's wonderful visit. 

A little crowd had gathered about Nan at 
the railway-station — " the butcher, the baker, 
the candlestick-maker," the postman, the vil- 
lage doctor, and the village parson. 

The long train came around the curve and 
stopped in front of the station. The leave- 
taking, that deep wrenching to all true hearts, is 
over, and Nan, who has never before seen the 
inside of a railway-car, is whirled out of the vil- 
lage away from home and friends to the great 
city of her hopes and dreams ; and the new 
friends who gave Merrythought so warm a 
welcome will welcome her, too. In the gray 
twilight of an October day, the stately Mr. 
Goodheart was pacing backward and forward 
in the railway-station, awaiting the arrival of 
the Vermont train. Soon the puffing, pulling, 
and tugging of the heavy engine told him it was 
close at hand, and eagerly he watched the pas- 
sengers one by one : the tall, slim lady with the 
tired baby ; the short, happy-faced mother with 
two rosy-cheeked children ; the pale, weary- 
looking man ; the bustling big man with a big- 
ger valise, umbrella, cane, and overcoat, with 
the air of " Clear the track, for I am coming " ; 
tall folks, short folks, thick folks, thin folks, old 
folks, young folks, children in arms, and chil- 
dren out of arms, — all hurried by. Then at 
the end of this motley procession appeared a 
girl, bewildered and frightened, walking slowly 
as if uncertain which way to go. 

Poor Nan had never seen so many people in 

all her life. " More than there are in our whole 
town," thought she. The kind friend hastened 
toward the girl, who was clad in a plaid woolen 
gown, a shawl pinned about her shoulders, and 
a tam-o'-shanter on her head. Her clean but 
ungloved hands were clasped tightly about a 
large cardboard box tied with a strong cord, 
which contained all the wardrobe the child 

"Are you my little friend Nan, who loved 
Merrythought so much ? " asked Mr. Good- 
heart, and all Nan's fears vanished, and will- 
ingly she gave herself up to his keeping. On 
arriving at the home, she was warmly greeted 
by the good lady of the house. It was all so 
new and strange — these beautiful furnishings, 
these lovely dishes with the painted flowers just 
as they grew in Upland, this very table where 
Merrythought had been admired and eaten on 
Thanksgiving Day; and beside her plate lay the 
merrythought, gilded and tied with a blue rib- 
bon. All the good wishes that the children had 
wished for little Nan on Thanksgiving Day, 
when they decorated the wishbone, had come 
to pass. 

Nothing but happiness came to Nan for the 
next month. Day after day passed in seeing 
new places and things : churches, art galleries, 
and fairs, things new and things old, all in turn 
were visited ; and the shops, oh ! the shops — 
shops for books and shops for boots, shops for 
toys and shops for candy, shops for trunks 
and shops for clocks, shops little and shops 
big; and Nan was whirled up and down in the 
elevators till her eyes and brain were so daz- 
zled and bewildered that at last she said she 
could n't tell whether elevators were going up 
or down. 

Then followed the days with the dressmaker. 
A navy-blue serge trimmed with darker velvet 
and the loveliest of buttons, a pretty jacket to 
match, and a jaunty little hat, with kid gloves — 
yes, real kid, such as Nan had read about away 
up in Upland, but never had expected to see, 
much less to wear on her own hands — and many 
of the dainty little things which are precious 
boons to girlhood, had now been added to 
Nan's wardrobe. 

The home letters were very few, for Nan had 
said in one of them : " I can never write it all ; 

i8 93 -] 



you must wait till I get home, for it will take 
all winter to tell it." 

One afternoon Mrs. Goodheart took her to 
see '■ The Old Homestead," and Nan fairly 
reveled in appreciation of country life shown 
on a Boston stage. It seemed to her it must be 
real, for did n't she know just such an " Uncle 
Josh" up in Upland ? Even the beautiful lights 
and the crowds of well-dressed people, the music 
and the shifting of the scenes, and the curtain 
with the " beautiful picture rising up and 
down," could hardly convince her that it was 
only '-'make believe." 

VI. nan's home-coming. 

And all too soon came the time when Nan 
must say good-by. A little trunk fastened with 
straps and lock had taken the place of the box 
secured with a string, for her wardrobe now was 
sufficient to fill the trunk; and in one corner 
there was carefully put, by Mrs. Goodheart's 

own hand, when Nan was not looking, the 
" dearest little clock " which Nan had wished 
for so much when they had been out among 
the shops. Many pretty little things had been 
tucked away in the comers for the other chil- 
dren at the Vermont home ; and the little shawl 
which Nan had worn when Mr. Goodheart had 
found her at the station was carefully folded 
over all. 

At last all was ready, the good-bys were 
said, and Nan was speeding back to the 
Katchpence home. 

But was not all life brighter and happier for 
her ? Was there not around each daily duty a 
golden halo ? Was not the dull routine made 
beautiful by happy memories which lifted her 
above the commonplace ? Had not all the 
care and affection bestowed upon Merrythought 
returned to her with interest such as she had 
never dreamed of? And is not all her life made 
more beautiful through her warm-hearted de- 
votion to one of God's weak creatures ? 


The SmgingShelland 
the Clock. 

ear the nursery clock a sea-shell lay, 
Singing- away day after day ; 

The little clock stood stiff and straight , 
And it talked away at a terrible rate . 

"They say that the sea-shell talks " said he, 
"But a poor sort of song its song must be, 

For although it lies so very near 
Not a murmur nor sound I hear." 

"Perhaps,' said a vase that stood close by, 
"You do not listen , and that is why." 

"Listen [listen 1 . Why Vase'/it said , 
"I've just been listening- straight; 

I hear most things from the mantle-shelf, 
Because I don t talk much myself ; 

I hear when they scrub the nursery-floor, 
Or close the shutters, or bang the door, 

And a poor sort of song that song must be," 
Said the clock',' that is not heard by me ." 

And still the clock talked straight along, 
And still the sea-shell sang its song ; 

Sofrly it sang, and sweet and true, 
But you had to listen before you knew^. 



By Tudor Jenks. 

I dreamed twelve owls in the jury-box, 
And a bear with silken gown and wig, 

AVere trying a most unhappy fox, 

Watched by a dog who was fierce and big. 

Three monkeys grave, with pen and ink 

And papers spread upon the table, 
Wrinkled their brows and tried to think ; 

For they were lawyers, grave and able. 

Then straightway it occurred to me 

How matters might be changed around, 

If the case about honey or mice should be, 
And the jury or judge in the dock were found. 

The bees could tell tales of old Judge Bear, 

And the mice and frogs of those pompous owls, 

Till neither one would ever dare 
To speak of foxes or of fowls ! 




Now we will turn our attention to 



Now is the crackle time of year, my friends, 
when the bright reds and yellows of October have 
taken on sober tints of gray and russet, and juicy 
blades and pliant stems grow stiff, 

While, studded with sheaf and stack, 
The fields lie browning in sullen haze 
And creak in the farmer's track. 

But there is plenty of life, somewhere. Squirrels 
and a few — ah, how few! — birds are about, and 
there are warm days when the air softens until 
it seems almost that summer may yet come back. 
Hear the song that Mr. Frank H. Sweet has sent 
to this pulpit: 

Up in the top of a walnut-tree 
Squirrels are having a jubilee, 

And bright and gay 

They frisk and play 

And hold their harvest holiday ; 
And show their thanks 
In squirrel pranks 

For gathered nuts they 've stored away. 

Hear also what your friend M. 
you : 

F. B. has sent 

'T was on an autumn morning, 

The world seemed chill and bare, 
A sense of bright things dying 

Hovered on the air. 
The wind it fell a-sighing, 

And I said " Woe is me ! " 
There came a merry answer — 

Chick-a-dee-dee ! 

Among the golden birches 

The song rang blithe and clear, 
In spite of leaves a-falling 

And the lonesome time o' year. 
I felt ashamed of sorrow, 

And laughed in sudden glee ; 
Back came a joyous echo — 

Chick-a-dee-dee ! 


My birds have brought me great news. They 
got it from the Central Park sparrows, and it is 
confirmed by stately labeled birds behind wire 
fences, as the latest information from the Natural 
History museum. 

The Hercules Beetle, you may know, is not only 
the largest member of the Coleoptera or beetle 
family, but it is the largest insect known. Being 
so distinguished, and consequently not at all com- 
mon, it is seldom seen here excepting in the dried 
state, as specimens in the glass cases of learned 
collectors. But at last a real live Hercules Beetle 
has come to town. It was caught (as the Little 
Schoolma'am learned from the New York Tribune) 
in the island of Dominica in the West Indies, and 
brought by a sailor to the professor of entomology 
at the Natural History museum in New York. It 
is not a very pretty fellow, — no bug six inches 
long with gray wing-covers and a black head 
armed with a long horn lined with bristles, and 
another long horn growing out of its body, can 
be very charming, — but it certainly is interesting, 
and is well worth seeing, if one does n't go close 
enough to it to get a nip from the cruel horns. 
These, I am told, grow in such a way as to form a 
pair of strong nippers, with which Mr. Hercules 
Beetle can pinch a piece out of one's flesh before 
one can say "Jack Robinson." 

Any of you, my hearers, who happen to have 
the Century Dictionary in your pockets may find in 
its pages a fine picture of this mammoth beetle. 

HERE is a story from our friend the Rev. J. A. 
Davis. It is a remarkable incident, but brother 
Davis assures me that it is strictly true in every 
particular : 


" Spot" was a Brooklyn dog, without noted an- 
cestors or pedigree; but he had something better — 
a worthy character. He might pass as a kind of 
Casabianca among dogs. 

Each morning before going to business in New 
York his master conducted family worship, to 
which "Spot" was admitted, though ordered to 
take his seat on a chair and remain quiet until his 
master should tell him to come down. The dog 
learned to obey, and would not desert his place no 
matter who called, or what inducement was of- 
fered, until his master allowed him to move away. 

One morning the master was suddenly sum- 
moned away, and " Spot" was forgotten. All that 
day the poor fellow kept his place ; now sitting, 
again standing, then, for a change, lying down, 
but never leaving the chair. His mistress tried 
to convince him that it would be all right; and 
the children tried to persuade him that his master 
had forgotten to permit him to leave his place ; 
" Spot" remained where he had been ordered to 

When the owner returned at night, and was 
told of the dog, he hurried to the room to see 
what "Spot" would do. The dog was on the chair 




waiting for his master, whose steps he recognized, 
but he did not offer to jump to the floor. Wag- 
ging his tail as though he would wag it off, the 
dog waited for the command that should set him 
free. When it was given, there was a streak of 
dog between the chair and feet of the master. 
Then, at his owner's feet, "Spot" gazed up into 
the face of the man with a look that said plainly, 
"I obeyed, Master, but it has been a hard day. 
Please do not let it happen again." 


Once on a time, in a far-away place, 

Lived a queer little girl with a company face, 

And no one outside of the family knew 

Of her every-day face, or supposed she had two. 

The change she could make with wondrous celerity, 

For practice had lent her surprising dexterity, 

But at last it chanced, on an unlucky day 

(Or lucky, perhaps, I would much better say), 

To her dismal dismay and complete consternation, 

She failed to effect the desired transformation ! 

And a caller, her teacher, Miss Agatha Mason, 

Surprised her with half of her company face on, 

And half of her every-day face peeping out, 

Showing one grimy tear-track and half of a pout, 

Contrasting amazingly with the sweet smile 

That shone on her "company" side all the while. 

The caller no sooner had hurried away 

Than up to her room the girl flew in dismay; 

And, after a night spent in solemn reflection 

On the folly of features that can't bear inspection, 

She came down to breakfast, and walked to her place, 

Calm, sweet, and serene, with her company face. 

Thenceforward she wore it, day out and day in, 

Till you really might think 't would be worn very thin ; 

But, strange to relate, it grew more bright and gay, 

And her relatives think 't was a red-letter day 

When the greatly astonished Miss Agatha Mason 

Surprised her with half of her company face on. 

Minnie L. Upton. 


Few of the people who live in the great 
island of Australia have ever seen a flower-picker, 
although they may have lived for years beneath 
the lofty trees upon wdiich this little bird builds its 
pretty nest. The fact is the flower-picker lives so 
high up among the topmost twigs of the tallest 
trees, and is so small, and so seldom descends even 
to the lower branches, that, in spite of its rich scar- 
let breast, it never attracts notice, and, indeed, 
cannot often be seen by the naked eye at the dis- 
tance from the ground at which it usually builds 
its nest. Sometimes a person standing beneath 
one of the great trees growing upon the bank of a 
creek or river, where these birds are to be found, 
will hear a pretty, warbling song, unlike any he 
ever heard elsewhere ; but unless he knows the 
habits of the bird, and is a skilful hunter, he can 
scarcely hope to catch a glimpse of the singer 
snugly hidden away among the thickly growing 
leaves far above him. 

The nest of the flower-picker is very beautiful ; 
it is made of the cotton-like linings of the seed-pods 
of Australian shrubs and is perfectly white, so that, 
as it swings in the breeze, it looks like a snow-ball 
hanging on some wild vine or climbing plant. 

There is another kind of a flower-picker that lives 

in the island of Borneo. The little birds belonging 
to this species, unlike their timid Australian cou- 
sins, make their homes in low brushwood, and are 
so fearless that they will allow themselves to be 
almost touched before they take flight. The Ma- 
lay people, who live in the part of Borneo where 
these birds are found, call them "sparks," because 
the male bird, when darting about among the 
bushes, really looks as bright as a flash of fire. 
The nest of the flower-picker of Borneo is about 
the shape and size of a goose-egg. It is built of 
fine green moss and a sort of brown silky mass 
of threads or fibers from a plant, and lined with a 
few small feathers. One of these nests' was found 
in a tree that was cut down. All the nestlings but 
one were killed by the fall. 

Mr. Motley, who tells us all we know of the bird, 
took the one little bird that was left alive, and suc- 


ceeded by great care in bringing it up, feeding it 
first on rice and bananas. As soon as it was strong 
enough it was placed in a small cage. Although 
very restless, never being for a moment still, it was 
quite tame and fearless, and would sit upon the fin- 
ger without trying to fly away ; and although its 
whole body, feathers and all, might have been shut 
up in a walnut, it would peck at a finger held out 
to it with great fierceness. 

It is strange that two birds so much alike as the 
flower-pickers of Australia and those of Borneo 
should differ so in disposition and habits. 





One night, just as Mabel was being put to bed, she told her nurse that 
she heard a soft " Scratch, scratch ! " at her door. The nurse said she did 
not hear it at all. But Mabel said, " Hush ! Now listen." Both kept very 
still, and plainly heard the sound again. Nurse opened the door, and there 
was a little kitten, who looked up saying " Mew ! " and then walked in, lift- 
ing her paws high at each step. 

"Why," said the nurse, "that is the kitten that came to the kitchen door 
to-day. The cook thought her so gentle and pretty that she gave her some 
milk and let her stay. She has come up to see you. Maybe she was some 
little girl's pet." 

" Will you keep her for me till to-morrow ? " Mabel asked, as the little 
kitten came purring about her feet. 

" Yes," said the nurse. 

Next morning, when the nurse came to dress Mabel, the kitten came with 
her, and jumped up on Mabel's lap, saying, " Mew, mew ! " 

"What does she mean?" Mabel asked. 

"She means 'Good-morning, Mabel; I 'd like my breakfast,'" said the 
nurse, smiling. 

But just then the kitten looked at Mabel's canary, "Dick," and said, "Mew, 
mew, mew ! " very fast. 

Then Mabel laughed, and said : 

" I think you are a polite little cat to come and wish me good-morning, 
and you shall have some breakfast. You can't have my canary, Pussy; 
but I '11 give you a big bowl of bread and milk." 

And the kitten had the bread and milk as soon as Mabel finished her own 

Perhaps the kitten did not mean that she wanted to eat the canary, for 
before long the kitten and Dick, the canary, became good friends. 


By Thomas Tapper. 

In winter-time, when we have tea, 
We have to light the lamp to see ; 
The days are cold, the winds blow strong, 
The sun 's afraid to stay out long. 
Vol. XXL— 12. 

In summer-time, quite otherwise, 
It seems he 's always in the skies ; 
The weather 's warm, he likes to stay, 
And so we have our tea by day. 

Under this heading will appear from time to time brief 
selections from iieivspapcrs and similar sources — current 
bits of anecdote and information, of especial interest to 
young folk. 


Of the one hundred and ten appointments under the 
sergeant-at-arms of the United States Senate, those of 
the pages only can be said to be non-political. No boy 
can be appointed a page of the Senate who is not twelve 
years of age ; and no boy can continue as a page who 
is sixteen years of age at the beginning of a session 
of Congress. It is a lucrative position, and few of 
the boys are not sorry when their term has ended. 
Usually, four of the boys who are graduated from the 
page's position at the beginning of a session are ap- 
pointed riding-pages. Their selection depends on their 
records for efficiency and faithfulness. The page on the 
floor of the Senate draws $2.50 a day during the session 
of Congress. The riding-page receives $2.50 a day the 
year around, and has a horse to ride. His duties keep 
him out of doors a great part of the time, carrying mes- 
sages between the Capitol and the departments. The 
position is considered more desirable than that of a 
page. Speaking of their work, the Washington Star 
says : " The page's life is a pleasant one. He must be 
on duty at nine o'clock each morning, but the serious 
business of the day does not begin until noon, when the 
Senate meets. Before that time he arranges the hies of 
the Congressional Record and the bills and reports on 
the desks of the senators who have been assigned to 
him. There are sixteen pages and eighty-eight senators, 
so none of the pages has very much to do. The morning 
hours are not all working hours. There is a gymnasium 
in the basement of the Capitol, furnished especially for 
their use. They exercise their arms and their chests 
there every morning; their legs get plenty of exercise 
through the day." — New York Evening Post. 


. . . The English language is called one of the most 
difficult of acquirement by foreigners ; but it would seem 

that the German was especially invented to try the 
printer's patience. There is a druggist's prescription 
something like collodion, to be used to prevent scarring 
after certain operations, but in Germany they call it 
Kazbolquecksilberguttaperchpftasterniull — thirty-nine let- 
ters. Still we for once outdo them with the chemical 
name for the drug hypnol — manotrichloracetyledimet/iyl- 
phenylpyrazalon — forty-two letters, not one of which 
must be skipped if we would convey a clear idea of the 
substance described. — New York Independent. 


" It is a mistaken idea that none but human beings can 
reason, and that dumb animals have not that power," 
said Professor Albert A. Palmer of Buffalo. " I am 
fully prepared to demonstrate that the animals inferior 
to man have reasoning faculties, and that what is gen- 
erally termed instinct plays an important part in their 
doings and actions. 

" Let me give a single example. I have a friend 
named Downing who owns a number of valuable race- 
horses. One is a horse known as ' Speedwest.' A day 
or so before a race in which the horse is entered he gen- 
erally sends him out on the track mounted by a stable- 
boy for a little preparatory work. This horse will not 
take kindly to his work, and no amount of persuasion 
with whip or spur can get him away from a common 
canter. I noticed this peculiarity in the animal, and 
one day suggested to Downing that perhaps the horse 
knew that he was not expected to race, and for that 
reason could not understand exactly what was required 
of him. I prevailed upon him to dress the stable-boy 
in the colors usually worn in a race, and try the horse 
again. He did so, and the boy was placed in front of 
the animal for a moment that he might see the colors. 
The result was that when the boy mounted again the 
horse broke at the word of command and set off at a 
long, swinging gallop, which he increased to a run, fin- 
ishing the work under a strong pull. Another stable- 
boy was put up without the colors, and the horse refused 
to leave the loping gait at which he started out. A sec- 
ond time the colors were used, and again the animal set 
out at a rate of speed calculated to break a record. 



" What do you call that, instinct or reasoning ? I 
contend that the horse had a rational faculty which he 
exercised at will. He knew that without the colors lie 
had nothing in particular to gain by exerting himself for 
a swift run. When the colors were put on, the horse 
reasoned that there was some object in view. He rea- 
soned that he was already prepared for a race, and made 
his pace accordingly without being urged." — St. Louts 


A minister of a prominent New York church, who 
was about to leave home for a few days, was bidding 
good-by to his family. 

When he came to Bobby he took the little fellow in 
his arms and said : " Well, young man, I want you to be 
a good boy, and be sure to take good care of mama." 

Bobby promised, and the father departed, leaving him 
with a very large and full appreciation of his new and 
weighty responsibility. When night came, and he was 
called to say his prayers, the young guardian expressed 
himself as follows : 

" Lord, please protect papa, and brother Dick, and 
sister Alice, and Aunt Mary, and all the little Jones 
boys, and Bobby. But you need n't trouble about 
Mama, for I 'm going to look after her myself." — Boston 


It was recently asked of the public-school children that they 
should give the exact proportions of the American flag. It was very 
reprehensible of them not to do so. I have tried cyclopedias, officers 
of the navy, and various lights of the educational world, but all in 
vain, and I cannot find out. Pray enlighten me. C. 

Answer. — It is not surprising that public-school 
children could not meet the demand for information as 
to the dimensions of the American flag. That does not 
belong to the educational routine. It is a kind of know- 
ledge which must be acquired in the practical part of 
life. The Eagle has answered the query as to the pro- 
portions of a flag many times. If a flag is 8 feet long 
each stripe should be 4 inches wide, which would give a 
width of 4 feet 4 inches to the flag. The union should 
cover 7 stripes, and be one third the length, or 32 inches 
wide. If the flag is 6 feet long it should be 3^ feet 
wide. — Brooklyn Eagle. 


We are indebted to Pompeii for the great industry of 
canned fruit. Years ago, when the excavations were 
just beginning, a party of Cincinnatians found in what 
had been the pantry of a house many jars of preserved 
figs. One was opened, and they were found to be fresh 
and good. Investigation showed that the figs had been 
put into jars in a heated state, an aperture left for the 
steam to escape, and then sealed with wax. The hint 

was taken, and the next year fruit-canning was intro- 
duced into the United States; the process being identical 
with that in vogue at Pompeii twenty centuries ago. — 
American Druggist. 


There was a young girl in the choir 
Whose voice rose hoir and hoir, 

Till it reached such a height 

It was clear out of seight, 
And they found it next day in the spoir. 

— Detroit Free Press. 


A Maine man has looked up the records of thirty-six 
boys who about fifty years ago went to the " little brown 
school-house " in Sanford. All have become prosperous 
and excellent citizens. Four are prominent lawyers ; 
one a successful Boston physician ; thirteen prosperous 
merchants ; one a wealthy Kansas farmer ; one is su- 
perintendent of the Life-saving Department at Washing- 
ton ; one is an officer in the United States Navy; and 
five are bankers. Four have been mayors of their cities, 
and seven, all leading citizens, still live in Sanford. — 
A T ew York Sun. 


As showing how fearfully and wonderfully made the 
Russian newsboy must be, the following are specimens 
of the papers he cries out on the streets of St. Peters- 
burg and Moscow : Wjedomosty Gradojiatshalstwa, Olo- 
netzkija Goubernskija, Pskoffsky Gorodskoi Listok, Jeka- 
tert7toslawsky Listok, JVostotshuoje Objaafienij, Estland- 
skija Gonbernsk Wjedomosty. — New Haven Palladium. 


Sweet Sarah Sawyer's sickly sister Susan sat singing 
swiftly. Squire Samson Seward's son Sam strolled, 
smoking, sorrowfully seeking sweet Susan. Suddenly 
spying sad Susan sitting singing, Sam slouched slowdy, 
stealing sunflowers, scaring sweet Sarah. Susan, start- 
ing, screeched : 

" Sam, stop stealing sunflowers ; seek some stale 
sandwiches ! " 

Sam seized several, swallowed seven, sank slowly, 
sighing, " So seasick." 

Sweet Sarah sauntered slowly. Seeing Sam so seasick, 
she said: 

"Sister Susan, sprinkle some smelling-salts." 

She sprinkled some salts, singing sweet songs. " Sam 
survives," spake Susan. She sobbed silently. Sam said: 

" Susan, stop sobbing." 

She stopped, shivered, sneezed suddenly — so suddenly 
Sam shuddered. Somewhat startled, Susan said : 

" Sweet Sam, sing some sad Sunday-school songs." 

Sam sang successfully. — Utica Herald. 


We thank our correspondent for this kindly letter. 
The mistake referred to has already been corrected in 
the Letter-Box of last month. 

Port Huron, Mich. 
Editor St. Nicholas, New York, N. Y. 

Dear Sir: Port Huron has reasonable cause for 
complaint with St. Nicholas for violent removal made 
by Miss McCabe, author of the article on Edison in 
your August issue. Residents who have been here 
longenough to get the '* lay of the land," as well as of the 
contiguous waters, have always supposed that the lake 
we are able to see from our sky-scraper buildings to the 
northward was called " Huron." Miss McCabe says 
Port Huron is situated on the shores of Lake Erie. 
Possibly we might consent to the removal were it not 
for the fact that Lake Erie is comparatively narrow and 
shallow, while Lake Huron is broad and deep, and its 
cool waters render the summer climate on its banks 
most delightful. Under the circumstances, we must 
enter decided objections to the removal, and hope that 
you will intercede with Miss McCabe to place us back 
again at the foot of Lake Huron, where we have lived 
and flourished during the past half-century or more. 
Yours most sincerely, 

L. A. Sherman. 

We have received many hearty letters from Wide 
Awake readers, and we gladly print these three: 

Chicopee, Mass. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have taken Wide Awake a 
great many years, and although I can no longer call my- 
self a child, I still enjoyed reading it. 

Now, as a Wide Awake friend, I most cordially greet 
you, St. Nicholas; for you are now dear because you 
represent dear little Wide Awake. 

Your greeting to Wide Awake " recruits " is so hearty 
and sincere you do not seem like an intruder, but a dear 
old friend, who is going to keep on taking us, together 
with your happy followers, on more of the pleasant ex- 
cursions into the realms of Delight, Knowledge, and 
Brotherly Love. I remain sincerely yours, 

Helen G. C . 

Dear St. Nicholas : My uncle sent me the Wide 
Awake. I have been away all summer, and had a very 
nice time. Good-by, long life to the " Wide Awake St. 
Nicholas," from Ruth C. H— — . 

We have received thirteen corrected versions of the 
second misspelled story, entitled " Sound versus Sense," 
which was given in " Jack -in-the- Pulpit " in the Septem- 
ber number; and, as ten out of the thirteen are absolutely 
correct, we think that our young folk must have been 
studying their spelling-books earnestly since they sent 
corrected versions of the first misspelled story. The 
names of those who sent correct copies are: "Almy," 
Katharine C. Hodge and Emma D. Howell, Cora R. 
Egan, J. Hanson Coburn, Maude C. McCoy, Mary C. 
Smith, Myra Fishback, Katharine Egbert, Laura G. San- 
ford, Henry Wallace, Ernestine Taylor, Mary B. Hillyer, 
Hildah Underbill. Virginia S. J., Clara M. E.,B. B. D., 
and Jennie B. M. also sent copies that had only a few 
slight errors. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I suppose that very few of the 
members of your congregation have ever seen a quarter, 
or twenty-five-cent piece, of gold. 

I have one in my possession coined in California in the 
year 1875. It is a minute octagon, bearing on the ob- 
verse an Indian's head somewhat similar to those on 
the cents of the present issue ; thirteen stars in the field, 
and the date 1S75. The reverse, or back, bears "^ at the 
opening of a wreath, and the word " Dollar," and the ab- 
breviation "Cal." within the wreath. 

Yours truly, Charles Willard L . 

Indianapolis, Ind. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have just read in your Sep- 
tember number of the Wide Awake joining with you. 

I took the Wide Awake\ast year. Like others of your 
readers, I have been in Mexico, and have attended a 
Mexican school. We were in Parral, a little town in the 
State of Chihuahua, 800 miles from the city of Mexico. 
There are plenty of burros there ; they are used a great 
deal in the mines. My brother tried to ride one, but it 
was so stubborn he had to have three boys to go be- 
hind and whip it. Ever your constant reader, 

Florence A. G . 

Readers of the Letter-Box will be interested in this 
clever and amusing verse written by a little girl of ten. 
It is entitled 

Ode to My Mother. 

You and I are lonely 

F'or our father dear ; 
But, although we miss him, 

We wouldn't have him here : 
For we want him to go bathing 

In the shining Eastern sea, 
And grow a great deal stouter 
Erejie comes to you and me. 

Elsie Lyle. 



Les Melezes, Champel, Geneva. 
My dear St. Nicholas: I am a little American 
girl, eleven years old. My papa is in the navy. We have 
just come from the Navy-yard in San Francisco. I saw 
a letter from a little girl there, but she went away just 
before we came. While I was there, I had quite a lot of 
pets; they were as follows: nine cats, a mustang pony, 
a monkey, two guinea-pigs, a hedgehog, two parrots, two 
quail, a humming-bird, a Spanish squirrel, two rabbits, 
a coon, three dogs, and a wild canary. All that I have 
now is a puppy, whose name is " Puck Bijou." While I 
was crossing the ocean on "La Bourgogne," I met Clive 
Mapes, a nephew of our dear editor. Good-by, from 
your little friend, 

Mary M- 

Plant Trees ! 

All young folk in America should consider it a duty 
to plant a young tree in some bare spot, whenever prac- 
ticable. Every homestead has room for at least one 
— an oak, an elm, or a walnut. But do not put it in a cor- 
ner; a tree needs plenty of ground, and has its own way 
of showing gratitude for ample space. 

We reprint from The Century Magazine a poem by 
Mr. H. C. Bunner : for we want our young folks to en- 
joy it in their own magazine. 

The Heart of the Tree. 

(An Arbor-day Song.) 

What does he plant who plants a tree? 
He plants the friend of sun and sky; 
He plants the flag of breezes free ; 
The shaft of beauty, towering high ; 
He plants a home to heaven anigh 
For song and mother-croon of bird 
In hushed and happy twilight heard — 
The treble of heaven's harmony — 
These things he plants who plants a tree. 

What does he plant who plants a tree ? 
He plants cool shade and tender rain, 
And seed and bud of clays to be, 
And years that fade and flush again ; 
He plants the glory of the plain ; 
He plants the forest's heritage ; 
The harvest of a coming age ; 
The joy that unborn eyes shall see — 
These things he plants who plants a tree. 

What does he plant who plants a tree ? 
He plants, in sap and leaf and wood, 
In love of home and loyalty 

And far-cast thought of civic good — 
His blessing on the neighborhood 
Who in the hollow of His hand 
Holds all the growth of all our land — 
A nation's growth from sea to sea 
Stirs in his heart who plants a tree. 

Saybrook Point, Conn. 

My dear St. Nicholas: I will write you a seaside 
letter, where I am having a jolly summer. 

Saybrook is an old Puritan town. John Winthrop 
founded it and named it for Lord Say-and-Seal and 

Lord Brooke, who owned the grant of land here. The 
old cemetery is very quaint, the tombstones bearing 
many a curious legend, some in verse. Lady Fenwick 
was the first white woman who died here. She died in 
1648. pier quaint tombstone, centuries old, still bears the 
date. Some of the stones have such funny names on 
them, such as '' Submit," " Temperance Ann," and others 
as queer. It is such a dark, lonesome spot, I must ac- 
knowledge I don't like to pass it alone, not even in day- 
time. This place was the first home of Yale College, and 
a large " mound " is shown to preserve the memory of it. 

What I really want to tell you most is very remarkable. 
As I was digging down deep near the beach, I dug up 
an old coin, which we polished up and found it was dated 
1740, with " Britannia" around a woman sitting; on the 
other side, "Georgius II. Rex " surrounding a head of 
George the Second. I value it highly, because I believe 
one of those old Puritans lost it, for it was two and a 
half feet below the surface. 

Dear St. Nicholas, you have been a great friend of 
mine ever since I could read, and my dolls used to be 
named after the girls in your stories. I am now eleven 
years old, and you are just as delightful as when I was 
six. I often hope that when I am grown up I can write 
stories you will publish. Your constant reader, 

Mary Austin Y . 

Millis, Mass. 
Dear St. Nicholas: Mama has taken your lovely 
magazine in a club for fifteen years. We have a good 
many volumes bound, and we all value them very highly. 
I have two sisters, one older and one younger than myself, 
and I thought you might like to hear about a letter my 
oldest sister received when she was a little girl. She 
wanted Mama to write to Santa Claus for her, so Mama 
wrote : 

" Dear Mr. St. Nicholas, my Mama tells me, 
That of all folks ridiculous, you 're the funniest to see : 
With your little round face, and your jolly red nose, 
And wherever you come from, nobody knows." 

Mama left the note on the dining-room table with pen 
and ink beside it, and the next morning there was a note 
from Santa Claus there too; but it was written with ink 
of a different color, and the letters were made in such 
queer shapes we knew Santa Claus must have written it. 
This was his answer : 

" Where do I come from ? What is it to you, 

So that I fill your stocking, and my wife fills your shoe? 

But still, as you 've asked me, I deem it but fair 

To answer you truly, I come from A T ma/iere." 

Very truly yours, Arthur Hale W . 

Chicago, III. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I wonder how many of your 
readers have ever seen a ship launched. I went to see 
one launched a few months ago, and it was perfectly 
beautiful. The ship was launched at South Chicago, 
and we went there on the ship "Arthur Orr," which 
started from down-town. It was a delightful trip, as 
the day was very warm. 

Miss H., whose father is the president of the World's 
Fair, christened the ship that was to be launched. Just 
as she broke a bottle of champagne on the bow and said 
the words, "I christen you ' Manitou,' " the ropes which 
held it were loosened, and the Manitou glided grace- 



fully into the water. For a moment I thought the ship 
could not steady itself, for a monstrous wave swept over 
it, and it seemed to lie right on its side. The effect it 
presented is indescribable, but it looked perfectly beauti- 
ful. But as the boat became steady the thousands of 
people who had watched it cheered and clapped amid 
the whistles of the Arthur Orr and several other boats. 

We hope soon to make a trip -on the Manitou, which 
runs up north as far as Mackinac and back twice a 
week. Your friend and constant reader, 

Mayrose B . 

Fort Sidney, Nebraska. 
Dear St. Nicholas : We (my brothers and sisters 
and myself) have taken you for twelve years. We spent 
the last three years at Fort Russell, Wyoming, and every 
month St. Nicholas was more and more welcome. We 
are for the present at Fort Sidney, Nebraska. We take 
a great many drives here, and although the country is 
not very pretty, it is quite interesting. There are a great 
many ranches, which are cultivated in corn and grass. 
The most attractive sight at this post is the beautiful 
avenue of cottonwood trees, which have been growing 
here for a number of years and have attained an immense 
height. One of the companies here is an Indian com- 
pany, and one of their amusements is beating on a drum 
for many hours a day. When the troops went out on 
their practice march, we went out to see their camp. We 
w-ent to one of the companies to see their arrangements 
for supper ; they had a good fire on the ground, and were 
cooking large quantities of hash in a Buzzacott oven. 
Over another fire were hanging a number of iron kettles, 
some containing hot water and others coffee. I am your 
devoted reader, Katharine E . 

The Snowflakes. 

In the nights of chilly winter, 
When the stormy breezes blow, 

When the rivers all are frozen, 
And the ground is white with snow; 

When the sleighing-bells are ringing, 
And the wind is howling loud, 

Then the Hitle snowflake fairies 
Fall from out the stormy cloud, 

Landing on the hills and meadows, 

On the squirrels pay a call, 
Hushing all the trees to sleep, so 

Soft and silently they fall : 

Flying this way, flying that way, 

Not allowed a bit of rest, 
For the lively wind is blowing, 

And he likes them whirling best. 

Phillis D (thirteen years old). 

We thank the young friends whose names follow for 
pleasant letters received from them: Teddie G., La 
Reine L.,Eva G. H.,Kate G. H., Grace C. H., Forrest 
C, Edith and Ethel E., Mabel R., Mildred C, Fred N. 
S., Virginia C. G, Robert J. S., Jr.,E. H. K., Gladys W., 
Bertha W., Charles S., E. T. McG., Walter W., A. S. D., 
C. W. S., Emily R., Helen P. M., Lowell C. F., Addie M. 
B., E. W. T., Marjorie B., Elfie J. C, Martha H. E., 
Lilian W., F. D. B., Karl and Flossy W., Hazel M. S., 
Walter S. W., Alice and Emile B., Edith E. D., Elizabeth 
M. M., Flossy Laura C, Carrie T. F., Clara M. E., Laura 
G. S.,and Edna S. C. 


These are neither Albinos nor Museum Freaks. They are the three hardy sons of Neighbor Smith, who belong to the Eureka Foot-ball 
Eleven. Their sisters are horrified at the change in their personal appearance. 



Beheadings. Dryden. Cross-words : i. D-rill. 2. R-eel. 
3. Y-ell. 4. D-apple. 5. E-vent. 6. N-ode. 

Coin Puzzle. Millicent said, " I met a doll arrayed in white 
agleam with gold." " Mill "i "cents " ai"d i me " t a "doll ar" 
rayed in whit " e agle " am with gold. 

Numerical Enigma. " Diligence is the mother of good luck, 
and God gives all things to industry." 

An Arrow. Across: 1. Cave. 2. Liage. 3. Crossbows. 4. Taste. 
5. Fort. Anagram. Christopher Columbus. 

Metamorphosis. I. Fast, fact, face, lace, lane, sane, sand, send, 
seed, sled, slew, slow. II. Ice, ace, are, ore, ode, odd, add, aid, did, 
din, den, dew. III. Fear, dear, deer, deed, heed, held, hold, hole, 

Cube. From 1 to 2, Vermont; 1 to 3, vagrant ; 2 to 4, tremble; 
3 to 4, trample; 5 to 6, sharers ; 5 to 7, sharpen; 6 to 8, shamble; 
7 to 8, narrate ; 1 to 5, vans; 2 to 6, toss ; 4 to 8, else; 3 to 7, thin. 

Hour-glass. Centrals, Madison. Cross-words : 1. cheMist. 
2. blAde. 3. aDd. 4. I. 5. aSk. 6. drOne. 7. shiNgle. 
Illustrated Diagonal. Racine. 1. Ribbon. 2. sAndal. 

" Pathfinder of the 
3. moTto. 4. litHe. 
9. Evict. 10. aRoma. 
15. GrEek. 16. pRate. 

ermiNe. 6. circlE. 

Rocky Mountains." 1. Palos. 
5. flufF. 6. chain. 7. doNor. 
11. clOud. 12. craFt. 13. mighT. 
17. Ovoid. 18. aCrid. 19. faKir. 
2i. eNact. 


3. piCkax 
2. fAgot. 
8. aDmit. 
14. figHt. 

20. praYs. 21. HiraM. 22. sloOp. 23. brUte. 
25. Thank. 26. gAmut. 27. twist. 28. slaNg. 29. 

Poetical Double Acrostic. Primals, William Tell 

Switzerland. Cross-words: 1. Wrens. 2. Ingelow. 3. I. apis lazuli. 

4. Launcelot. 5. Inez. 6. Anemone. 7. Marston Moor. 8. Tyr- 
rell. 9. Egeria. 10. Lantern. 11. Leopard. 

Word-squares. I. 1. Manes. 2. Arian. 3. Nitre. 4. Earal. 

5. Snell. II. 1. Snath. 2. Nitre. 3. Attic. 4. Trial. 5. Hecla. 

To our Puzzlers: Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th of each month, and 
should be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Centurv Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the August Number were received, before August 15th, from " M. McG." — Paul Reese — 
Four of " The Wise Five" — Mama and Jamie — Dorothy Day — E. M. G. — Ida C. Thallon — Josephine Sherwood — L. O. E. — Gail 
Ramond — " Block Island " — Katharine Moncrief — "Tommy Traddles " — Jo and I — Amy Ewing — " Wareham " — " Uncle Mung " — 
Maud and Dudley Banks — Zada Daw. 

Answers to Puzzles in the August Number were received, before August 15th, from John Merchant, 2 — Alice Mildred Blanke 
and Co., 10 — Jeanne M. H., 2 — Lucie Hegeman and Elsie Moyer, 1 — Herbie J. Rose, 1 — May and Nannie, 6 — Irene Thompson, 1 — 
"H. M. Myself," 5— J- W. D., 2 — Amy Hope B,, 2— Carrie Chester, 1 — Mabel E. A., 1 — M. S. M., 2 — R. R. N., 5 — " The 
Egyptian," 2 — George McCloskey, 1 — Margaret Crocker, 2 — Grace Shirley, 1 — J. V. M., 2— F. M. B., 2— M. J. P., 8 — Albert S. 
Reese, 2 — Bobby Wallis, 1 — Theodore Goldsmith, 2 — - Ruth M. Mason, 1 — E. Padelford Tail, 1 — Clara M. Upton, 5 — Laura M. Zin- 
ser, 5 — Worcester Bouck, 1 — Edwin Rutherfurd, 1 — " Punch and Judy," 3 — Grantknauff, 1 — Clara Mayer, 1 — L. H. K., 2 — Geo. S. 
Seymour, 6 — Eva and Bessie, 5 — Boys of Church Home, Johnstown, Pa., 5 — "Three Blind Mice," 5 — Tabitha McGeorge, 5 — Mel- 
ville Hunnewell, 4 — Jessie Chapman, 7 — "The Highmount Girls," 9 — Helen C. McCleary, 10 — "Two Berkshire Girls," 4 — L. Hutton 
and V. Beedc, 8 — June, 9. 


1. O PA ! Have you brought home my big, ruby ring ? 

2. As Tom was passing, a piece of paper chanced to 
fall on the floor. 

3. If another hoop will make the tub as strong as ever, 
please put one on. 

4. Will you ask at every house if M oily has passed by ? 

5. If you put some drab on it over the blue, it will look 

6. I never saw beef so lean and tasteless. 

7. If Percival has had a suitable vacation he should 
resume work. 

8. Here is a tangle ready for you to undo. 

9. If you want news of Ma'abar, Belle can give it to 

10. If you let the car pass, you cannot have a ride. 


A famous artificer : 


South America. 3. The smallest mammal in existence. 
4. A windlass. 5* Flatters meanly. 6. Egg-shaped. 
7- An inhabitant of the southern part of Asia. 8. Bands 
or girdles. 9. Animals of the hog kind. 10. Celerity 

of motion. HERBERT SIDDONS. 


Roe thees owl domesaw shang a pells 

Hatt slodh a gretans, otecip crahm : 
I hare ti ni eht raf blowcel, 

Sa vatrang latcet kese eth fram. 
Ene ni thees kaleb brovemen sayd 

Theer 's snagdels rof eht thare hatt shede. 
Het sharm ot em on golom scoveny, 

Hothug eht gery storf eb no eht swede. 


All the words described are of equal length. When 
these are rightly guessed and placed one below another, 
in the order here given, the central letters, reading down- 
ward, will spell the name of a British officer of Revolu- 
tionary fame. 

Cross-words : 1. A small sailing-vessel used only for 
pleasure-trips. 2. A mammal peculiar to Mexico and 

1. A soft mineral. 
4. A popular candy. 
tate. 6. To dig. 7. 

2. Surfaces. 3. Looked askance. 
5. An old word meaning to imi- 
To cast a sidelong look. 





country of Europe. 


All the words de- 
scribed contain the 
samenumberof letters. 
When rightly guessed, 
and placed one below 
the other, the initial let- 
ters will spell a char- 
acter in one of Dick- 
ens's works. 
Cross-words : 
I. An herb often 
used as a sea- 
soning. 2. A 
country in Asia. 
3. A water- 
nymph. 4. Juve- 
nility. 5. Com- 
pact. 6. A 


I. A letter. 2. A masculine nickname. 3. Conclu- 
sion. 4. To cause to go in any manner. 5- Separates 
into parts with force or sudden violence. 6. Those 
who live on the labors of others. 7. Considers atten- 
tively. S. Instruments used for beating. 9. Very 
heavy. "three blind mice." 


I am composed of a hundred and three letters, and am 
a quotation from Coleridge. 

My 70— 24-13-1 1-53-55 i s I0 seesaw. My 34-5-5°" 
80-31-95-48-20-26-88 is promising. My 85-62-67 is a 
coxcomb. My 83—58-39—73 is furnished with shoes. My 
16-28-101-41-44-91 is anything that brings good luck. 
My 98-90-60-103-65 is search. My 97-9-7-75-22 is 
darkness. My 43-25-2-63-21 is banter. My 77-37-45- 
100-33 is decreased. My 29-81-86-69-94 is uproar. My 
27-19-93-18-52 is an aromatic substance mentioned in 
the second chapter of St. Matthew. My 79-15-84-30-71 
is odor. My S9-I-56-99-46 is to taunt. My 10-51-92- 
3-102 is to dwarf. My 61-95-49-82-76-38 is a poem 
of fourteen lines. My 59-36-47 is a feminine name. My 
35-78-14-S7 is clean. My 54-6-57 is to strike gently. 
My 12-64-4-23 is elevated. My 72-17-40 is a prefix 
signifying negation. My 66-6S-74-42-S-32 is a shiny 
fabric. ' E. M. H. 


I. A VEGETABLE growth. 2. A large organ of the 
body. 3. An old word meaning " to look at." 4. Snug 
places. 5. A ringlet. CHARLES B. D. 


My primals, reading downward, spell certain things 
which grow downward ; and my finals, reading upward, 
spell certain things which grow upward. 

CROSS-WORDS (of unequal length): 1. Gems. 2. A 
gem of a bright blue color. 3. A variety of quartz of a 

purple color. 4. An aluminous 
mineral of a rich blue color. 5 
metal, coming into general use, 
markable for its lightness. 6. A steep, 
rugged rock. 7. A volcanic roc 
formed of consolidated cinders. S. 
Space of time between any two events. 
9. Baked clay. 10. The highest moun- 
tain in the world. 11. Rocks which 
split readily into thin plates. \v. j. 


Cross-words : I. Bestows liberally. 2. To pain 
acutely. 3. A beverage. 4. In hour-glass. 5. An ani- 
mal. 6. One who scatters seeds. 7. Pursuing. 

My centrals, reading downward, spell what often may 
be found by the waterside. A. B. c. 


I. Upper Diamond: i. In defalcates. 2. To ask 
alms. 3. An East Indian princess. 4. Honors con- 
ferred by universities. 5. A visitor. 6. Encountered. 
7. In defalcates. 

II. Left-hand Diamond, i. In defalcates. 2. To 
strike gently. 3. A Turkish governor. 4. Secures firmly. 
5. Robbery. 6. An insect. 7. In defalcates. 

III.. Central Square: i. A difficult question. 2. A 
pigment. 3. A bundle of grain. 4. To rub out. 5. To 

IV. Right-hand Diamond : 1. In defalcates. 2. Part 
of a locomotive. 3. An artificial watercourse. 4. A per- 
son affected by excessive enthusiasm. 5- To lave. 6. A 
false statement. 7. In defalcates. 

V. Lower Diamond: i. In defalcates. 2. Alight 
moisture. 3. An evil spirit. 4. Pertaining to the femur. 
5. To harass by pursuit and barking. 6. A term of 
negation. 7. In defalcates. F. w. F. 




Vol. XXI. 

DECEMBER, 1893. 

Copyright, 1893, by The Century Co. All rights reserved. 

No. 2 



Kala Nag, which means Black Snake, had 
served the Indian Government in every way 
that an elephant could serve it for forty-seven 
years, and as he was fully twenty years old 
when he was caught, that makes him nearly 
seventy — a ripe age for an elephant. He re- 
membered pushing, with a big leather pad on 
his forehead, at a gun stuck in deep mud, and 
that was before the Afghan war of 1842, and he 
had not then come to his full strength. His 


y(\ pl 1 N( 

mother Radha Pyari, — Radha the darling, — 
who had been caught in the same drive with 
Kala Nag, told him, before his little milk-tusks 
had dropped out, that elephants who were 
afraid always got hurt : and Kala Nag knew 
that that advice was good, for the first time 
that he saw a shell burst he backed, screaming, 
into a stand of piled rifles, and the bayonets 
pricked him in all his softest places. So, be- 
fore he was twenty-five, he gave up being 





afraid, and so he was the best-loved and the 
best-looked-after elephant in the service of the 
Government of India. He had carried tents, 
twelve hundred pounds' weight of tents, on the 
march in upper India : he had been hoisted 
into a ship at the end of a steam-crane and 
taken for days across the water, and made to 
carry a mortar on his back in a strange and 
rocky country very far from India, and had 
seen the Emperor Theodore lying dead in 
Magdala, and had come back again in the 
steamer entitled, so the soldiers said, to the 
Abyssinian war medal. He had seen his fellow- 
elephants die of cold and epilepsy and starva- 
tion and sunstroke up at a place called Ali 
Musjid, ten years later; and afterward he had 
been sent down thousands of miles south to 
haul and pile big baulks of teak in the timber- 
yards at Moulmein. There he had half killed 
an insubordinate young elephant who was shirk- 
ing his fair share of work. 

After that he was taken off timber-hauling, 
and employed, with a few score other elephants 
who were trained to the business, in helping to 
catch wild elephants among the Garo hills. 
Elephants are very strictly preserved by the 
Indian Government. There is one whole de- 
partment which does nothing else but hunt 
them, and catch them, and break them in, and 
send them up and down the country as they 
are needed for work. Kala Nag stood ten fair 
feet at the shoulders, and his tusks had been 
cut off short at five feet, and bound round the 
ends, to prevent them splitting, with bands of 
copper ; but he could do more with those 
stumps than any untrained elephant could do 
with the real sharpened ones. When, after 
weeks and weeks of cautious driving of scat- 
tered elephants across the hills, the forty or 
fifty wild monsters were driven into the last 
stockade, and the big drop-gate, made of tree- 
trunks lashed together, jarred down behind 
them, Kala Nag, at the word of command, 
would go into that flaring, trumpeting pande- 
monium (generally at night, when the flicker of 
the torches made it difficult to judge distances), 
and, picking out the biggest and wildest tusker 
of the mob, would hammer him and hustle him 
into quiet while the men on the backs of the 
other elephants roped and tied the smaller ones. 

There was nothing in the way of fighting that 
Kala Nag, the old wise Black Snake, did not 
know, for he had stood up more than once in 
his time to the charge of the wounded tiger, 
and, curling up his soft trunk to be out of 
harm's way, had knocked the springing brute 
sideways in mid-air with a quick sickle-cut of 
his head, that he had invented all by himself; 
had knocked him over, and kneeled upon him 
with his huge knees till the life went out with 
a gasp and a howl, and there was only a fluffy 
striped thing on the ground for Kala Nag to 
pull by the tail. 

" Yes," said Big Toomai, his driver, the son 
of Black Toomai who had taken him to Abys- 
sinia, and grandson of Toomai of the Elephants 
who had seen him caught, " there is nothing 
that the Black Snake fears except me. He has 
seen three generations of us feed him and 
groom him, and he will live to see four." 

" He is afraid of me also," said Little Too- 
mai, standing up to his full height of four feet, 
with only one rag upon him. He was ten 
years old, the eldest son of Big Toomai, and, 
according to custom, he would take his father's 
place on Kala Nag's neck when he grew up, 
and would handle the heavy iron ankus, the 
elephant- goad that had been worn smooth by 
his father, and his grandfather, and his great- 
grandfather. He knew what he was talking 
of; for he had been born under Kala Nag's 
shadow, had played with the end of his trunk 
before he could walk, had taken him down to 
water as soon as he could walk, and Kala Nag 
would no more have dreamed of disobeying his 
shrill little orders than he would have dreamed 
of killing him on that day when Big Toomai 
carried the little brown baby in his arms un- 
der Kala Nag's tusks, and told him to salute 
his master that was to be. " Yes," said Little 
Toomai, " he is afraid of me," and he took 
long strides up to Kala Nag, called him a fat 
old pig, and made him lift up his feet, one 
after the other. 

" Wah ! " said Little Toomai, " thou art a 
big elephant," and he wagged his fluffy head, 
quoting his father. " The Government may 
pay for elephants, but they belong to us ma- 
houts. When thou art old, Kala Nag, there 
will come some rich Rajah, and he will buy thee 




from the Government, on account of thy size 
and thy manners, and then thou wilt have noth- 
ing to do but to carry gold earrings in thy ears, 
and a gold howdah on thy back, and a red 
cloth covered with gold on thy sides, and walk 
at the head of the processions of the King. 

elephant-lines, one stall to each elephant, and 
big stumps to tie them to safely, and flat, broad 
roads to exercise upon, instead of this come-and- 
go camping. Aha, the Cawnpore barracks were 
good. There was a bazar close by, and only 
three hours' work a dav." 


Then I shall sit on thy neck, O Kala Nag, 
with a silver ankus, and men will run before 
us with golden sticks, crying, ' Room for the 
King's elephant ! ' That will be good, Kala 
Nag, but not so good as this hunting in the 

'• Umph," said Big Toomai. " Thou art a 
boy, and as wild as a buffalo-calf. This run- 
ning up and down among the hills is not the 
best Government service. I am getting old, and 
I do not love wild elephants. Give me brick 

Little Toomai remembered the Cawnpore 
elephant-lines and said nothing. He very 
much preferred the camp life, and hated those 
broad flat roads, with the daily grubbing 
for grass in the forage-reserve, and the long 
hours when there was nothing to do except 
to watch Kala Nag fidgeting in his pickets. 
What Little Toomai liked was the scramble up 
bridle-paths that only an elephant could take; 
the dip into the valley below: the glimpses of 
the wild elephants browsing miles away; the 




rush of the frightened pig and peacock under 
Kala Nag's feet; the blinding warm rains, when 
all the hills and valleys smoked; the beautiful 
misty mornings when nobody knew where they 
would camp that night ; the steady, cautious 
drive of the wild elephants, and the mad rush, 
and blaze, and hullaballoo of the last night's 
drive, when the elephants poured into the 
stockade like boulders in a landslide, found 
that they could not get out, and flung them- 
selves at the heavy posts only to be driven 
back by yells and flaring torches and volleys 
of blank cartridge. Even a little boy could be 
of use there, and Toomai was as useful as three 
boys. He would get his torch and wave it, 
and yell with the best. But the really good 
time came when the driving out began, and 
the Keddah, that is, the stockade, looked like a 

picture of the end of the world, and men had 
to make signs to one another, because they 
could not hear themselves speak. Then Little 
Toomai would climb up to the top of one of 
the quivering stockade-posts, his sun-bleached 
brown hair flying loose all over his shoulders, 
and he looking like a goblin in the torch-light ; 
and as soon as there was a lull you could 
hear his high-pitched yells of encouragement 
to Kala Nag, above the trumpeting and crash- 
ing, and snapping of ropes, and groans of the 
tethered elephants. " Mail, mail, Kala Nag! 
(Go on, go on, Black Snake!) Danl do! 
(Give him the tusk!) Somalo ! Somalo ! 
(Careful, careful!) Maro ! Mar! (Hit him, 
hit him!) Mind the post! Aire! Arret 
Hai ! Yai ! Kya-a-ah !" he would shout, and 
the big fight between Kala Nag and the wild 


i8 9 3-] 



elephant would sway to and fro across the 
Keddah, and the old elephant-catchers would 
wipe the sweat out of their eyes, and find time 
to nod to Little Toomai wriggling with joy on 
the top of the posts. He did more than 
wriggle. One night he dropped down and 
slipped in between the elephants, and threw up 
the loose end of a rope, which had dropped, to 
a driver who was trying to get a purchase on 
the leg of a kicking young calf (calves always 
give more trouble than full grown animals). 
Kala Nag saw him, caught him in his trunk, 
and handed him up to Big Toomai, who 
slapped him then and there, and put him back 
on the post. Next morning he gave him a 
scolding, and said : " Are not good brick ele- 
phant-lines and a little tent-carrying enough for 
you, that you must needs go elephant-catching 
on your own account, little worthless ? Now 
those foolish hunters, whose pay is less than 
my pay, have spoken to Petersen Sahib of the 
matter." Little Toomai was frightened. He 
did not know much of white men, but Peter- 
sen Sahib was the greatest white man in the 
world to him. He was the head of all the 
Keddah operations — the man who caught all 
the elephants for the Government of India, and 
who knew more about the ways of elephants 
than any living man. 

"What — what will happen?" said Little 

" Happen ! the worst that can happen. 
Petersen Sahib is a madman; else why should 
he go hunting these wild devils ? He may 
even require thee to be an elephant-catcher, 
to sleep anywhere in these fever-filled jungles, 
and at last to be trampled to death in the 
Keddah. It is well that this nonsense ends 
safely. Next week the catching is over, and 
we of the plains are sent back to our stations. 
Then we will march on smooth roads, and for- 
get all this hunting. But, son, I am angry 
that thou shouldst meddle in the business that 
belongs to these dirty Assamese jungle-folk. 
Kala Nag will obey none but me, so I must go 
with him into the Keddah, but he is only a 
fighting elephant, and he does not help to rope 
them. So I sit at my ease, as befits a ma- 
hout, — not a mere hunter, — a mahout, I say, 
and a man who gets a pension at the end of 

his service. Is the family of Toomai of the 
Elephants to be trodden underfoot in the dirt 
of a Keddah ? Bad one ! Wicked one ! 
Worthless son ! Go and wash Kala Nag and 
attend to his ears, and see that there are no 
thorns in his feet ; or else Petersen Sahib will 
surely catch thee and make thee a wild hun- 
ter — a follower of elephant's foot-tracks, a 
jungle-bear. Bah ! Shame ! Go ! " 

Little Toomai went off without saying a 
word, but he told Kala Nag all his grievances 
while he was examining his feet. " No matter," 
said Little Toomai, turning up the fringe of 
Kala Nag's huge right ear. " They have said 
my name to Petersen Sahib, and perhaps — and 
perhaps — and perhaps — who knows? Hai! 
That is a big thorn that I have pulled out ! " 

The next few days were spent in getting the 
elephants together, in walking the newly caught 
wild elephants up and down between a couple 
of tame ones, to prevent them giving too much 
trouble on the downward march to the plains, 
and in taking stock of the blankets and ropes 
and things that had been worn out or lost in 
the forest. Petersen Sahib came in on his 
clever she-elephant Pudmini ; he had been pay- 
ing off other camps among the hills, for the 
season was coming to an end, and tlfere was a 
native clerk sitting at a table under a tree, to 
pay the drivers their wages. As each man was 
paid he went back to his elephant, and joined 
the line that stood ready to start. The catch- 
ers, and hunters, and beaters, the men of the 
regular Keddah, who stayed in the jungle year 
in and year out, sat on the backs of the ele- 
phants that belonged to Petersen Sahib's per- 
manent force, or leaned against the trees with 
their guns across their arms, and made fun of 
the drivers who were going away, and laughed 
when the newly caught elephants broke the 
line and ran about. Big Toomai went up to 
the clerk with Little Toomai behind him, and 
Machua Appa, the head-tracker, said in an 
undertone to a friend of his, " There goes one 
piece of good elephant-stuff at least. 'T is a 
pity to send that young jungle-cock to moult in 
the plains." 

Now Petersen Sahib had ears all over him, 
as a man must have who listens to the most 
silent of all living things — the wild elephant. 




He turned where he was lying all along on 
Pudmini's back, and said, " What is that ? I 
did not know of a man among the plains-drivers 
who had wit enough to rope even a dead 

" This is not a man, but a boy. He went into 
the Keddah at the last drive, and threw Barmao 


there the rope, when we were trying to get 
that young calf with the blotch on his shoulder 
away from his mother." Machua Appa pointed 
at Little Toomai, and Petersen Sahib looked, 
and Little Toomai bowed to the earth. 

" He threw a rope ? He is smaller than a 
picket-pin. Little one, what is thy name," said 
Petersen Sahib. Little Toomai was too fright- 
ened to speak, but Kala Nag was behind him, 

and Toomai made a sign with his hand, and the 
elephant caught him up in his trunk and held 
him level with Pudmini's forehead, in front of 
the great Petersen Sahib. Then Little Toomai 
covered his face with his hands, for he was only 
a child, and, except where elephants were con- 
cerned, he was just as bashful as a child could be. 

"Oho," said 
Petersen Sahib, 
smiling under- 
neath his beard, 
"And where 
didst thou teach 
thy elephant 
that trick ? Was 
it to help thee 
to steal green 
corn from the 
roofs of the 
houses when the 
ears are put out 
to dry ? " 

" Not green 
corn, Protector 
of the Poor — 
melons, " said 
Little Toomai, 
and all the men 
sitting about 
broke into a roar 
of laughter. 
Most of them 
had taught their 
elephants that 
trick when they 
were boys. Lit- 
tle Toomai was 
hanging eight 
feet up in the air, 
and he wished 
very much that 
he was eight feet under ground. 

" He is Toomai, my son, Sahib," said Big 
Toomai, scowling. " He is a very bad boy, and 
he will end in a jail, Sahib." 

" Of that I have my doubts," said Petersen 
Sahib. " A boy who can face a full Keddah at 
his age does not end in jails. ' See, little one, 
here are four annas to spend in sweetmeats be- 
cause thou hast a little head under that great 




thatch of hair. In time thou mayest become a 
hunter, too." Big Toomai scowled more than 
ever. " Remember, though, that Keddahs are 
not good for children to play in," Petersen 
Sahib went on. 

" Must I never go there, Sahib?" asked Little 
Toomai, with a big gasp. 

"Yes." Petersen Sahib smiled again. "When 
thou hast seen the elephants dance. That is 
the proper time. Come to me when thou hast 
seen the elephants dance, and then I will let 
thee go into all the Keddahs." 

There was another roar of laughter, for that 
is an old joke among elephant-catchers, and it 
means just never. There are great cleared fiat 
places hidden away in the forests that are called 
elephant's ball-rooms, but even these are only 
found by accident, and no man has ever seen 
the elephants' dance. When a driver boasts 
of his skill and bravery the other drivers say, 
" And when didst thou see the elephants 
dance? " 

Kala Nag put Little Toomai down, and he 
bowed to the earth again and went away with 
his father, and gave the silver four-anna piece 
to his mother, who was nursing his baby brother, 
and they all were put up on Kala Nag's back, 
and the line of grunting, squealing elephants 
rolled down the hill path to the plains. It was 
a very lively march on account of the new ele- 
phants, who gave trouble at every ford, and who 
needed coaxing or beating every other minute. 

Big Toomai prodded Kala Nag spitefully, for 
he was very angry, but Little Toomai was too 
happy to speak. Petersen Sahib had noticed 
him, and given him money, so he felt as a pri- 
vate soldier would feel if he had been called 
out of the ranks and praised by his comman- 

" What did Petersen Sahib mean by the ele- 
phant-dance ? " he said, at last, softly to his 

Big Toomai heard him and grunted. "That 
thou shouldst never be one of these hill-buf- 
falos of trackers. That was what he meant. 
Oh! you in front, what is blocking the way?" 

An Assamese driver, two or three elephants 
ahead, turned round angrily, crying, " Bring 
up Kala Nag, and knock this youngster of mine 
into good behavior. Why should Petersen 

Sahib have chosen me to go down with you 
donkeys of the rice-fields ? Lay your beast 
alongside, Toomai, and let him prod with his 
tusks. By all the Gods of the Hills, these new 
elephants are possessed, or else they can smell 
their companions in the jungle." 

Kala Nag hit the new elephant in the ribs and 
knocked the wind out of him, as Big Toomai 
said, " We have swept the hills of wild ele- 
phants at the last catch. It is only your care- 
lessness in driving. Must I keep order along 
the whole line ? " 

" Hear him ! " said the Assamese. " We 
have swept the hills ! Ho ! Ho ! You are very 
wise, you plains-people. Any one but a mud- 
head who never saw the jungle would know 
that they know that the drives are ended for the 
season. Therefore all the wild elephants to- 
night will — but why should I waste wisdom on 
a river-turtle ? " 

" What will they do ? " Little Toomai called 

" Ohe, little one. Art thou there ? Well, I 
will tell thee, for thou hast a cool head. They 
will dance, and it behooves thy father, who has 
swept all the hills of all the elephants, to 
double-chain his pickets to-night." 

" What talk is this ? " said Big Toomai. " For 
forty years, father and son, we have tended ele- 
phants, and we have never heard such moon- 
shine about dances." 

"Yes; but a plains-man who lives in a hut 
knows only the four walls of his hut. Well, 
leave thy elephants unshackled to-night and see 
what comes ; as for their dancing, I have seen 
the place where — Bapree-Bap! How many 
windings has the Dihang River ? Here is an- 
other ford, and we must swim the calves. Stop 
still, you behind there." 

And in this way, talking and wrangling and 
splashing through the rivers, they made their 
first march to a sort of receiving-camp for the 
new elephants ; but they lost their tempers long 
before they got there. 

Then the elephants were chained by their 
hind legs to their big stumps of pickets, and 
extra ropes were fitted to the new elephants, 
and the fodder was piled before them, and the 
hill-drivers went back to Petersen Sahib through 
the afternoon light, telling the plains-drivers to 




be extra careful that night, and laughing when 
the plains-drivers asked the reason. 

Little Toomai attended to Kala Nag's supper, 
and as evening fell, wandered through the camp, 
unspeakably happy, in search of a tom-tom. 
When an Indian child's heart is full, he does 
not run about and make a noise in an irregular 
fashion. He sits down to a sort of revel all 
by himself. And Little Toomai had been 
spoken to by Petersen Sahib ! If he had not 
found what he wanted, I believe he would 
have been ill. But the sweetmeat-seller in the 
camp lent him a little tom-tom, — a drum that 
you beat with the flat of your hand, — and he 
sat down, cross-legged, before Kala Nag as the 
stars began to come out, the tom-tom in his 
lap, and he thumped and he thumped and he 
thumped, and the more he thought of the great 
honor that had been done to him, the more he 
thumped, all alone among the elephant-fodder. 
There was no tune and no words, but it was 
the thumping that made him happy. The new 
elephants strained at their ropes, and squealed 
and trumpeted from time to time, and he could 
hear his mother in the camp hut putting his 
small brother to sleep with an old, old song 
about the great God Shiv, who once told all the 
animals what they should eat. I have forgotten 
the native words ; but it is a very soothing lul- 
laby, and the first verse says: 

Shiv, who poured the harvest and made the winds to blow, 
Sitting at the doorways of a day of long ago, 
Gave to each his portion, food and toil and fate, 
From the king upon the guddee to the beggar at the gate. 
All things made he — Shiva the preserver. 
Mahadeo! Mahadeo ! he made all, — 
Thorn for the camel, fodder for the kine, 
And mother's heart for sleepy head, O little son of 
mine ! 

It goes on for ever so many verses, and Little 
Toomai came in with a joyous tunk-a-tunk at 
the end of each verse, till he felt sleepy and 
stretched himself on the fodder at Kala Nag's 
side. At last the elephants began to lie down 
one after another as is their custom, till only 
Kala Nag at the right of the line was left stand- 
ing up; and he rocked slowly from side to side, 
his ears put forward to listen to the night wind 
as it blew very slowly across the hills. The air 
was full of all the night noises that, taken to- 

gether, make one big silence — the click of one 
bamboo-stem against the other, the rustle of 
something alive in the undergrowth, the scratch 
and squawk of a half-waked bird (birds are 
awake in the night much more often than we 
imagine), and the fall of water ever so far away. 
Little Toomai slept for some time, and when he 
waked it was brilliant moonlight, and Kala Nag 
was still standing up with his ears cocked. Lit- 
tle Toomai turned, rustling in the fodder, and 
watched the curve of his big back against half 
the stars in heaven, and while he watched he 
heard, so far away that it sounded no more than 
a pinhole of noise pricked through the stillness, 
the " hoot-toot " of a wild elephant. All the 
elephants in the lines jumped up as if they had 
been shot, and their grunts really roused the 
sleeping mahouts. They came out of the huts, 
rubbing their eyes, and drove in the picket-pegs 
with big mallets, and tightened this rope and 
knotted that till all was quiet. One new ele- 
phant had nearly grubbed up his picket, and 
Big Toomai took off Kala Nag's leg-chain and 
shackled that elephant fore foot to hind foot, 
and just slipped a loop of grass string round 
Kala Nag's leg, and told him to stay still and 
remember that he was tied. He knew that he 
and his father and his grandfather had done the 
very same thing hundreds of times before. Kala 
Nag did not answer to the order by gurgling, 
as he usually did. He stayed still, looking out 
across the moonlight, his head a little raised 
and his ears spread like fans, up to the great 
folds of the Garo hills. 

" Look after him if he grows restless in the 
night," said Big Toomai to Little Toomai, and 
he went into the hut and slept. Little Toomai 
was just going to sleep, too, when he heard the 
coir string snap with a little " ting," and Kala 
Nag rolled out of his pickets as slowly and as 
silently as a cloud rolls out of the mouth of a 
valley. Little Toomai pattered after him, bare- 
footed, down the road in the moonlight, calling 
under his breath, "Kala Nag! Kala Nag! 
Take me with you, O Kala Nag ! " The ele- 
phant turned, still without a sound, took three 
strides back to the boy in the moonlight, put 
down his trunk, swung him to his neck, and al- 
most before Little Toomai had settled his knees, 
slipped into the forest. 




There was one blast of furious trumpeting 
from the lines, and then the silence shut down 
on everything, and Kala Nag began to move. 
Sometimes a tuft of high grass washed along 
his sides as a wave washes along the sides of a 
ship, and sometimes a cluster of wild-pepper 
vines would scrape along his back, or a bam- 
boo would creak where 
his shoulder touched it; 
but between those times 
he moved absolutely 
without any sound, drift- 
ing through the thick 
Garo forest as though it 
had been smoke. He 
was going up hill, but 
though Little Toomai 
watched the stars in 
the rifts of the trees, he 
could not tell in what 
direction. Then Kala 
Nag reached the crest of 
the ascent and stopped 
for a minute, and Little 
Toomai could see the 
tops of the trees lying 
all speckled and furry 
under the moonlight for 
miles and miles, and 
the blue-white mist over 
the river in the hollow. 
Toomai leaned for- 
ward and looked, and 
he felt that the forest 
was awake below him — 
awake and alive and 
crowded. A big brown 
fruit-eating bat brushed 
past his ear; a porcu- 
pine's quills rattled in 
the thicket, and in the 
darkness between the 
tree-stems he heard a 

hog-bear digging hard in the moist warm earth, 
and snuffing as it digged. Then the branches 
closed over his head again, and Kala Nag be- 
gan to go down into the valley — not quietly 
this time, but as a runaway gun goes down a 
steep bank — in one rush. The huge limbs 
moved as steadily as pistons, eight feet to each 

stride, and the wrinkled skin of the elbow- 
points rustled. The undergrowth on either side 
of him ripped with a noise like torn canvas, and 
the saplings that he heaved away right and 
left with his shoulders sprang back again, and 
banged him on the flank, and great trails of 
creepers, all matted together, hung from his 



tusks as he threw his head from side to side 
and plowed out his pathway. Then Little 
Toomai laid himself down close to the great 
neck lest a swinging bough should sweep him 
to the ground, and he wished that he were 
back in the lines again. The grass began to 
get squashy, and Kala Nag's feet sucked and 




squelched as he put them down, and the night 
mist at the bottom of the valley chilled Little 
Toomai. There was a splash and a trample, 
and the rush of running water, and Kala Nag 
strode through the bed of a river, feeling his 
way at each step. Above the noise of the 
water, as it swirled round the elephant's legs, 
Little Toomai could hear more splashing and 
some trumpeting both up-stream and down — 
great grunts and angry snortings, and all the 
mist about him seemed to be full of rolling, 
wavy shadows. u Ai!" he said, half aloud, his 
teeth chattering. " The elephant-folk are out 
to-night. It is the dance, then." 

Kala Naga swashed out of the water, blew 
his trunk clear, and began another climb ; but 
this time he was not alone, and he had not to 
make his path. That was made already, six 
feet wide, in front of him, where the bent jungle- 
grass was trying to recover itself and stand up. 
Many elephants must have gone that way only 
a few minutes before. Little Toomai looked 
back, and behind him a great wild tusker with 
his little pig's eyes glowing like hot coals, was 
just lifting himself out of the misty river. Then 
the trees closed up again, and they went on 
and up, with trumpetings and crashings, and 
the sound of breaking branches on every side 
of them. At last Kala Nag stood still between 
two tree-trunks at the very top of the hill. 
They were part of a circle of trees that grew 
round an irregular space of some three or four 
acres, and in all that space, as Little Toomai 
could see, the ground had been trampled down 
as hard as a brick floor. Some trees grew in the 
center of the clearing, but their bark was rubbed 
away, and the white wood beneath showed all 
shiny and polished in the patches of moonlight. 
There were creepers hanging from the upper 
branches, and the bells of the flowers of the 
..creepers, great waxy white things like convol- 
vuluses, hung down fast asleep ; but within the 
limits of the clearing there was not a single 
blade of green — nothing but the trampled 
earth. The moonlight showed it all iron-gray, 
except where some elephants stood upon it, and 
their shadows were inky black. Little Toomai 
looked, holding his breath, with his eyes start- 
ing out of his head, and as he looked, more, 
and more, and more elephants swung out into 

the open from between the tree-trunks. Little 
Toomai could only count up to ten, and he 
counted again and again on his fingers till he 
lost count of the tens, and his head began to 
swim. Outside the clearing he could hear them 
crashing in the undergrowth as they worked 
their way up the hillside ; but as soon as they 
were within the circle of the tree-trunks they 
moved like ghosts. 

There were white-tusked wild males, with 
fallen leaves and nuts and twigs lying in the 
wrinkles of their necks and the folds of their 
ears ; fat, slow-footed she-elephants, with rest- 
less, little pinky-black calves only three or 
four feet high running under their stomachs; 
young elephants with their tusks just beginning 
to show, and very proud of them ; lanky, 
scraggy old-maid elephants, with their hollow, 
anxious faces, and trunks like rough bark ; 
savage old bull-elephants, scarred from shoulder 
to flank with great weals and cuts of bygone 
fights, and the caked dirt of their solitary mud- 
baths dropping from their shoulders ; and there 
was one with a broken tusk and the marks of 
the full-stroke, the terrible drawing scrape, of 
a tiger's claws on his side. They were standing 
head to head, or walking to and fro across the 
ground in couples, or rocking and swaying all 
by themselves — scores and scores of elephants. 
Toomai knew that so long as he lay still on 
Kala Nag's neck nothing would happen to 
him; for even in the rush and scramble of a 
Keddah-drive a wild elephant does not reach 
up with his trunk and drag a man off the neck 
of a tame elephant ; and these elephants were 
not thinking of men that night. Once they 
started and put their ears forward when they 
heard the chinking of a leg-iron in the for- 
est, but it was Pudmini, Petersen Sahib's pet 
elephant, her chain snapped short off, grunting, 
snuffling up the hillside. She must have broken 
her pickets, and come straight from Petersen 
Sahib's camp ; and Little Toomai saw another 
elephant, one that he did not know, with deep 
rope-galls on his back and breast. He, too, 
must have run away from some camp in the 
hills about. 

At last there was no sound of any more ele- 
phants moving in the forest, and Kala Nag 
rolled out from his station between the trees 




and went into the middle of the crowd, clucking 
and gurgling, and all the elephants began to talk 
in their own tongue, and to move about. Still 
lying down, Little Toomai looked down upon 
scores and scores of broad backs, and wagging 
ears, and tossing trunks, and little rolling eyes. 
He heard the click of tusks as they crossed other 
tusks by accident, and the dry rustle of trunks 
twined together, and the chafing of enormous 
sides and shoulders in the crowd, and the inces- 
sant flick and hissh of the great tails. Then a 
cloud came over the moon, and he sat in black 
darkness; but the quiet, steady hustling and 
pushing and gurgling went on just the same. 
He knew that there were elephants all round 
Kala Nag, and that there was no chance of 
backing him out of the assembly ; so he set his 
teeth and shivered. In a Keddah at least 
there was torch-light and shouting, but here he 
was all alone in the dark, and once a trunk 
came up and touched him on the knee. Then 
an elephant trumpeted, and they all took it up 
for five or ten terrible seconds. After that, he 
heard the dew spattering down from the trees 
above like rain on the unseen backs, and then a 
dull booming noise began, not very loud at first, 
and Little Toomai could not tell what it was; 
but it grew and grew, and Kala Nag lifted up 
one fore foot and then the other, and brought 
them down on the ground — one-two, one-two, 
as steadily as trip-hammers. The elephants were 
stamping all together now, and it sounded like 
a war-drum beaten at the mouth of a cave. 
The dew fell from the trees till there was no 
more left to fall, and the booming went on, and 
the ground rocked and shivered, and Little 
Toomai put his hands up to his ears to shut 
out the sound. But it was all one gigantic jar 
that ran through him — this stamp of hundreds 
of heavy feet on the raw earth. Once or twice 
he could feel Kala Nag and all the others surge 
forward a few strides, and for a minute or two the 
thumping would change to the crushing sound 
of juicy green things being bruised, but after 
the boom of feet on hard earth began again. 
A tree was creaking and groaning somewhere 
near him. He put out his arm and felt the 
bark, but Kala Nag moved forward, still tramp- 
ing, and he could not tell where he was in the 
clearing. There was no sound from the ele- 

phants, except once, when two or three little 
calves squeaked together. Then he heard a 
thump and a shuffle, and the booming went on. 
It must have lasted fully two hours, and Little 
Toomai ached in every nerve ; but he knew 
by the smell of the night air that the dawn 
was coming, and he would have fainted where 
he was sooner than have cried out. 

The morning broke in one sheet of pale yel- 
low behind the green hills, and the booming 
stopped with the first ray, as though the light 
had been an order. Before Little Toomai had 
got the ringing out of his head, before even he 
had shifted his position, there was not an ele- 
phant in sight except Kala Nag, Pudmini, and 
the elephant with the rope-galls, and there was 
no sign or rustle or whisper down the hillsides 
to show which way the others had taken. Little 
Toomai stared again and again. The clearing 
as he remembered it, had grown ever so much. 
More trees stood in the middle of it, but the 
undergrowth and the jungle-grass at the sides 
had been rolled back. Little Toomai stared 
once more. Now he understood the trampling. 
The elephants had stamped out more room — 
had stamped the thick grass and juicy cane to 
trash, the trash into slivers, the slivers into tiny 
fibres, and the fibres into hard earth. 

" Wah ! " said Little Toomai, and his eyes 
were very heavy. " Kala Nag, my lord, let 
us keep by Pudmini and go to Petersen Sahib's 
camp, or I shall drop from thy neck." 

The third elephant watched the two go away, 
snorted, wheeled round, and took his own path. 
He may have belonged to some little native 
king's establishment, fifty or sixty or a hun- 
dred miles away. 

Two hours later, as Petersen Sahib was eat- 
ing early breakfast, his elephants, who had been 
doubled-chained that night, began to trumpet, 
and Pudmini, mired to the shoulders, and Kala 
Nag, very foot-sore, shambled into the camp. 
Little Toomai's face was gray and pinched, and 
his hair was full of leaves and drenched with 
dew ; but he tried to salute Petersen Sahib, 
and cried faintly: "The dance — the elephant- 
dance ! I have seen it, and — I die ! " As Kala 
Nag sat down, he slid off his neck in a dead 

But, since native children have no nerves 




worth speaking of, in two hours he was lying 
very contentedly in Petersen Sahib's hammock 
with Petersen Sahib's shooting-coat under his 
head and a glass of warm milk, a little brandy, 
with a dash of quinine inside of him, and while 
the old hairy, scarred elephant-catchers of the 
jungles sat three-deep before him, looking at 
him as though he were a spirit, he told his 
tale in short words, as a child will, and wound 
up with : 

" Now, if I lie in one word send men to see, 
and they will find that the elephant-folk have 
trampled down more room in their dance-room, 
and they will find ten and ten, and many times 
ten, tracks leading to that dance-room. They 
made more room with their feet. I have seen 
it. Kala Nag took me, and I saw. Also Kala 
Nag is very leg-weary ! " 

Little Toomai lay back and slept all through 
the long afternoon and into the twilight, and 
while he slept Petersen Sahib and Machua 
Appa followed the track of the two elephants 
for fifteen miles across the hills. Petersen 
Sahib had spent eighteen years in catching 
elephants, and he had only once before seen 
one of their dance-places. Machua Appa had 
no need to look twice at the clearing to see 
what had been done there, or to scratch with 
his toe in the packed, rammed earth. 

"The child speaks truth," said he. "All 
this was done last night, and I have counted 
seventy tracks crossing the river. See, Sahib, 
where Pudmini's leg-iron cut the bark of that 
tree ! Yes ; she was there too." They looked 
at one another and up and down, and they won- 
dered; for the ways of elephants are beyond 
the wit of any man, black or white, to fathom. 

" Forty years and five," said Machua Appa, 
" have I followed my lord the elephant, but 
never have I heard that any child of man had 
seen what this child has seen. By all the Gods 
of the Hills, it is — what can we say ? " and he 
shook his head. 

When they got back to camp it was time for 
the evening meal. Petersen Sahib ate alone 
in his tent, but he gave orders that the camp 
should have two sheep and some fowls, as well 
as a double ration of flour and rice and salt, 
for he knew that there would be a feast. Big 
Toomai had come up hot-foot from the camp 

in the plains to search for his son and his ele- 
phant, and now that he had found them he 
looked at them as though he were afraid of 
them both. And there was a feast by the 
blazing camp-fires in front of the lines of pick- 
eted elephants, and Little Toomai was the 
hero of it all ; and the big brown elephant- 
catchers, the trackers and drivers and ropers, 
and the men who know all the secrets of break- 
ing the wildest elephants, passed him from one 
to the other, and they marked his forehead with 
blood from the breast of a newly killed jungle- 
cock, to show that he was a forester, initiated 
and free of all the jungles. 

And at last, when the flames died down, and 
the red light of the logs made the elephants 
look as though they had been dipped in blood 
too, Machua Appa, the head of all the drivers 
of all the Keddahs, — Machua Appa, Petersen 
Sahib's other self, who had never seen a made 
road in forty years : Machua Appa, who was so 
great that he had no other name than Machua 
Appa, — leaped to his feet, with Little Toomai 
held high in the air above his head, and 
shouted : " Listen, my brothers. Listen, too, 
you my lords in the lines there, for I, Machua 
Appa, am speaking ! This little one shall no 
more be called Little Toomai, but Toomai of the 
Elephants, as his great-grandfather was called 
before him. What never man has seen he has 
seen through the long night, and the favor of 
the elephant-folk and of the Gods of the Jungles 
is with him. He shall become a great tracker ; 
he shall become greater than I, even I, Machua 
Appa ! He shall follow the new trail, and the 
stale trail, and the mixed trail, with a clear eye ! 
He shall take no harm in the Keddah when he 
runs under their bellies to rope the wild tuskers; 
and if he slips before the feet of the charging 
bull-elephant, the bull-elephant shall know who 
he is and shall not crush him. Aihai! my lords 
in the chains," — he whirled up the line of pick- 
ets, — " here is the little one that has seen your 
dances in your hidden places — the sight that 
never man saw ! Give him honor, my lords ! 
Salaam karo, my children. Make your salute 
to Toomai of the Elephants! Gunga Pershad, 
ahaa! Hira Guj, Birchi Guj, Kuttar Guj, 
ahaa ! Pudmini, — thou hast seen him at the 
dance, and thou too, Kala Nag, my pearl 

J 893.] 


I I I 

among elephants ! — ahaa! Together! To Too- 
mai of the Elephants. Barrao!" 

And at that last wild yell the whole line 
flung up their trunks till the tips touched 
their foreheads, and broke out into the full sa- 
lute — the crashing trumpet-peal that only the 

Viceroy of India hears, the Salaamut of the 

But it was all for the sake of Little Toomai, 
who had seen what never man had seen be- 
fore — the dance of the elephants at night and 
alone in the heart of the Garo hills ! 


{An Old Song of Whiter.') 

It snows ! it snows ! From out the sky 
The feathered flakes how fast they fly! 

Like little birds, that don't know why 

They 're on the chase from place to place, 

While neither can the other trace. 

It snows ! it snows ! A merry play 

Is o'er us in the air to-day ! 

As dancers in an airy hall 
That has n't room to hold them all, 
While some keep up, and others fall, 
The atoms shift ; then, thick and swift, 
They drive along to form the drift 
That, waving up, so dazzling white, 
Is rising like a wall of light. 

To-morrow will the storm be done; 

Then out will come the golden sun, 

And we shall see upon the run 

Before his beams, in sparkling streams, 

What now a curtain o'er him seems. 

And thus with life it ever goes ! 

'T is shade and shine. It snows ! it snows ! 



Vol. XXL— 15. 



By Kate Douglas Wiggin. 

strange thing 
happened at 
our house the 
other day. 
Not that there 
is anything un- 
usual about 
that, for curious 
things ha Ye been 
occurring regu- 
larly ever since 
I came here to 
live, which is ex- 
actly three years 
ago. I happen 
to know the pre- 
cise length of 
time because I 
have just had 
my third birth- 
day. They say that 
I had two others be- 
fore this, and of course it must be so. I suppose 
grown-up people never make any mistakes, or 
they would be a little more delicate in cor- 
recting ours. The other day I told grandmama 
an interesting thing that happened in heaven 
the morning I came away, and she was very 
severe with me on the subject of telling fibs. 
What on earth a " fib " is, and why I should n't 
have told it, is more than I can understand. 

All that I have to say about the other birth- 
days is this: that they could n't have been 
celebrated with much pomp and festivity or I 
should be able to remember them. Things 
that are worth remembering are always re- 
membered. I do not have any difficulty in 
recalling my last birthday. I had a rocking- 

chair, and a Noah's Ark, and a woolly dog, and 
a frosted cake with three candles. I lighted 
them myself, and when I stretched out my 
hand to do it, nurse observed that my fingers 
were dirty, and I was dragged out to be 
scrubbed in the very middle of the party. The 
only occasions when I am safe for a moment 
from her eagle eye are those on which I play 
in the park. Nurse has so many friends there 
that I can be dirty a long time before she no- 
tices it. Sometimes it is the policemen them- 
selves who draw her attention to the state of 
my hands. We love to play with the police- 
men, nurse and I, and they always manage 
to get through with their work, so as to have 
nothing to do when we are in the park. If life 
were all policemen and birthday parties and 
frosting, I should like it. Mama allowed me 
to pull off a large piece of frosting from the 
birthday cake, and eat a little of it twice a day. 
When the frosting is so much nicer than the cake 
why do they not fill the pans with that, and 
after it is baked spread a thin layer of cake 
over it ? But the same method is followed in 
a great many other things, in which I look in 
vain for rhyme or reason. For instance, they 
give me a spoonful of jam on my bread, when 
what I should like is a spoonful of bread on 
my jam. They drop a lump of sugar in my 
cup of milk and water, when I should prefer a 
cup of sugar-lumps with a little milk and wa- 
ter poured over them. ^ They put me to bed at 
the very most interesting part of the day. When 
the drawing-room fire is bright, and the tall 
lamps are lighted, and mama has on her love- 
liest dress, and papa has just come home and 
is dying to play "bear" with me — that is the 
exact moment when I am seized by nurse and 
carried struggling to my crib. I always make 



a point of struggling; not that it alters the 
course of things in the very least — for in point 
of numbers I am only one to four, and a small 
one at that. Still, I always struggle, because I 
think it is better to make some slight manifes- 
tation of individuality, or nurse will crush me 
altogether by her tyranny. 

But I was going to tell you about the 
strange thing that happened in our house, and 
I have been talking about everything else. 
This is the way grandmama tells a story, and I 
have caught the habit from her. When she 
knits she likes to tell her reminiscences, and 
sometimes she talks and talks till papa has to 
say, " Come to the point, mammy ! " and then 
she says, " Where was I ? Oh, yes ! " I like 
this way very much, and so I am going to 
make believe you are interrupting me, and 
telling me to come to the point, and now I 
am going to say, " Where was I ? Oh, yes ! " 

The strange thing is the appearance of a 
new red dolly up-stairs in the nursery. Every- 
body is playing with it, from grandmama down 
to the cook. My hair has not been curled for 
three or seven days (there is no cloud without 
its silver lining) : and nurse, instead of scrub- 
bing my nose up and down when she washes 
my face, simply rubs it down once or twice 
absent-mindedly and flies off to the mysterious 
dolly. I call it a dolly because I have n't de- 
cided what else to call it. At first I thought 
it was alive, because it cried and moved its 
arms, and opened and shut its eyes, but then 
so does Elsie Bennett's electric doll ; and if it 
is really alive, why does n't it walk and talk ? 
It might be a baby, but I am the baby in this 
house, so that supposition is disposed of. It 
must be a dolly, a huge, red, electric dolly; 
but is n't it curious that all the grown-up peo- 
ple play with it ? I have always thought that 
only children cared for dolls, but here is grand- 
mama, who is as old as anybody in the world, 
and she is forever holding this dolly. I don't 
believe she would even lend it to mama, for 
all she preaches to me about selfishness; but 
mama is not well now, and does n't care to 
play with anything or anybody. The house, 
when mama keeps her room, is as dreadful as 
the park would be if the policemen were ever 
too busy to play with nurse and me. 

As far as beauty is concerned, this doll 
does n't compare with Elsie Bennett's, or even 
with some of mine, though I have n't a good 
collection, because at Christmas time my 
friends run to drums and trumpets and sol- 
diers and tops. Elsie's dolls have beautiful 
curly hair that sometimes comes unglued, and 
peels off if you 're not careful. This dolly's hair 
has evidently been unglued, too, but I suppose 
when they can spare it they '11 send it away 
and have it mended. I never can spare my 
toys until they are broken, and then mama 
says they are not worth mending, and had bet- 
ter be given to the poor children. (Here is 
another mystery to add to the long list of 
things I have to look into when I am grown 
up : exactly what are " poor children," and 
why do they prefer broken toys to nice new 
ones that do whatever it says on the corner 
of the box ?) 

Perhaps they bought the red dolly not so 
much for its beauty as for its splendid works that 
never seem to get out of order. Elsie Ben- 
nett's electric doll performs some days, and on 
other days it has to be put back in the box un- 
til it feels in a better humor. This dolly did 
just the same things each time I saw it : it 
opened and shut its eyes, squizzled up its red 
face, clenched its fists, and cried. The crying 
part was not particularly well done ; that is, it 
does n't compare with the way in which I cry 
when I can't get what I want. There it goes 
again ! Papa must be playing with it ; he is the 
one who makes it cry best — and there is Elsie 
Bennett's mother coming in at the side door. 


The mystery is solved. Mrs. Bennett in- 
quired if I liked the new baby. " What baby?" 
I asked. " The little baby sister up in the 
nursery," she answered. " That is not a baby," 
I said decidedly; " that is a red electric dolly — 
/ am the baby ! " " You were the baby day 
before yesterday," she said, smiling in a particu- 
larly offensive manner; "but now that there is 
another, you are mama's great boy." 

It seems then that there can be more than 
one baby in the same house : an idea that I 
had never entertained. I don't see what is to 




become of me. I used to keep them all busily 
employed, and what do they propose to do 
with me now ? A little less attention I don't 
mind, for I cannot remember three more in- 
teresting days than the three through which I 
have just passed. I have been a good deal in 
the kitchen with cook, and she allowed me to 
knead dough-balls, and run my finger round the 
edge of the cake-bowl and eat it off, and then 
run it round many, many times more, until I 
was quite ill. I have climbed up on chairs and 
handled all the pretty things in the library, and 
this, of course, was a comfort and pleasure; but 
how about falling down on to the hard polished 
floor, and lying there for hours unremarked, 
though I yelled and yelled in a manner that 

has never before failed to bring the entire fam- 
ily to my feet ? To be sure, I finally got up 
by myself and found nothing at all the matter 
with me, but that was simply my good for- 
tune — it does n't alter the fact of their criminal 
neglect. As to being put to bed, I had to sug- 
gest it myself last night; and that, I consider, is 
going a little too far. 

"Mama's great boy!" It sounds rather at- 
tractive, on the whole. It seems as if it might 
mean trousers and a pony in course of time ! 
As I 've done every earthly thing there is to do 
to-day, I think I '11 go up to the nursery (al- 
ways providing the fat lady who lives there 
now will let me in at the door), and ask to look 
at the red baby squizzle up its face. 


By Huck Finn. Edited ey Mark Twain. 

Chapter III. 

E went to sleep 
about four 
o'clock, and 
woke up about 
eight. The pro- 
fessor was set- 
ting back there 
at his end, looking glum. He pitched us 
some breakfast, but he told us not to come 
abaft the midship compass. That was about 
the middle of the boat. Well, when you 

are sharp-set, and you eat and satisfy your- 
self, everything looks pretty different from 
what it done before. It makes a body feel 
pretty near comfortable, even when he is up 
in a balloon with a genius. We got to talking 

There was one thing that kept bothering me, 
and by and by I says : 

" Tom, did n't we start east ? " 


" How fast have we been going ? " 

" Well, you heard what the professor said 
when he was raging round. Sometimes, he said, 



II 7 

we was making fifty miles an hour, sometimes 
ninety, sometimes a hundred ; said that with 
a gale to help he could make three hundred 
any time, and said if he wanted the gale, and 
wanted it blowing the right direction, he only 
had to go up higher or down lower to find it." 

" Well, then, it 's just as I reckoned. The 
professor lied." 

" Why ? " 

" Because if we was going so fast we ought 
to be past Illinois, ought n't we ? " 

" Certainly." 

" Well, we ain't." 

" What 's the reason we ain't ? " 

" I know by the color. We 're right over 
Illinois yet. And you can see for yourself that 
Indiana ain't in sight." 

" I wonder what 's the matter with you, 
Huck. You know by the color? " 

" Yes, of course I do." 

" What 's the color got to do with it ? " 

" It 's got everything to do with it. Illinois 
is green, Indiana is pink. You show me any 
pink down here, if you can. No, sir; it 's green." 

" Indiana pink? Why, what a lie ! " 

"It ain't no lie; I 've seen it on the map, 
and it 's pink." 

You never see a person so aggravated and 
disgusted. He says : 

"Well, if I was such a numskull as you, 
Huck Finn, I would jump over. Seen it on 
the map! Huck Finn, did you reckon the 
States was the same color out of doors as they 
are on the map?" 

" Tom Sawyer, what 's a map for ? Ain't 
it to learn you facts ? " 

" Of course." 

" Well, then, how 's it going to do that if it 
tells lies ? That 's what I want to know." 

" Shucks, you muggins! It don't tell lies." 

"It don't, don't it?" 

" No, it don't." 

"All right, then; if it don't, there ain't no 
two States the same color. You git around 
that, if you can, Tom Sawyer." 

He see I had him, and Jim see it too ; and 
I tell you, I felt pretty good, for Tom Sawyer 
was always a hard person to git ahead of. Jim 
slapped his leg and says : 

" I tell you .' dat 's smart, dat 's right down 

smart. Ain't no use, Mars Tom ; he got you 
dis time, sho ! " He slapped his leg again, and 
says, " My Ian', but it was smart one ! " 

I never felt so good in my life ; and yet 7" 
did n't know I was saying anything much till 
it was out. I was just mooning along, perfectly 
careless, and not expecting anything was going 
to happen, and never thinking of such a thing 
at all, when, all of a sudden, out it come. Why, 
it was just as much a surprise to me as it was 
to any of them. It was just the same way it 
is when a person is munching along on a hunk 
of corn-pone, and not thinking about anything, 
and all of a sudden bites into a di'mond. Now 
all that he knows first off is that it 's some kind 
of gravel he 's bit into ; but he don't find out 
it 's a di'mond till he gits it out and brushes off 
the sand and crumbs and one thing or another, 
and has a look at it, and then he 's surprised and 
glad — yes, and proud too ; though when you 
come to look the thing straight in the eye, he 
ain't entitled to as much credit as he would 'a' 
been if he 'd been hunting di'monds. You can 
see the difference easy if you think it over. You 
see, an accident, that way, ain't fairly as big a 
thing as a thing that 's done a-purpose. Any- 
body could find that di'mond in that corn- 
pone; but mind you, it 's got to be somebody 
that 's got that kind of a corn-pone. That 's 
where that feller's credit comes in, you see; 
and that 's where mine comes in. I don't 
claim no great things, — I don't reckon I could 
'a' done it again, — but I done it that time; 
that 's all I claim. And I had n't no more 
idea I could do such a thing, and war n't any 
more thinking about it or trying to, than you be 
this minute. Why, I was just as cam, a body 
could n't be any cammer, and yet, all of a 
sudden, out it come. I 've often thought of 
that time, and I can remember just the way 
everything looked, same as if it was only last 
week. I can see it all : beautiful rolling country 
with woods and fields and lakes for hundreds 
and hundreds of miles all around, and towns 
and villages scattered everywheres under us, 
here and there and yonder ; and the professor 
mooning over a chart on his little table, and 
Tom's cap flopping in the rigging where it was 
hung up to dry. And one thing in particular 
was a bird right alongside, not ten foot off, 




going our way and trying to keep up, but losing 
ground all the time ; and a railroad train doing 
the same thing down there, sliding among the 
trees and farms, and pouring out a long cloud 
of black smoke and now and then a little puff 
of white ; and when the white was gone so 
long you had almost forgot it, you would hear 
a little faint toot, and that was the whistle. 
And we left the bird and the train both behind, 
'way behind, and done it easy too. 

But Tom he was huffy, and said me and Jim 
was a couple of ignorant blatherskites, and then 
he says: 

"Suppose there 's a brown calf and a big 
brown dog, and an artist is making a picture of 
them. What is the main thing that that artist 
has got to do ? He has got to paint them so 
you can tell them apart the minute you look at 
them, hain't he ? Of course. Well, then, do 
you want him to go and paint bsth of them 
brown ? Certainly you don't. He paints one 
of them blue, and then you can't make no mis- 
take. It 's just the same with the maps. That 's 
why they make every State a different color ; it 
ain't to deceive you, it 's to keep you from de- 
ceiving yourself." 

But I could n't see no argument about that, 
and neither could Jim. Jim shook his head, 
and says: 

"Why, Mars Tom, if you knowed what 
chuckleheads dem painters is, you 'd wait a long 
time before you 'd fetch one er dem in to back 
up a fac'. I 's gwine to tell you, den you kin see 
for youself. I see one of 'em a-paintin' away, 
one day, down in ole Hank Wilson's back lot, 
en I went down to see, en he was paintin' dat 
old brindle cow wid de near horn gone — you 
knows de one I means. En I ast him what 
he 's paintin' her for, en he say when he git her 
painted, de picture 's wuth a hundred dollars. 
Mars Tom, he could a got de cow fer fifteen, en 
I tole him so. Well, sah, if you '11 b'lieve me, 
he jes' shuck his head, dat painter did, en 
went on a-dobbin'. Bless you, Mars Tom, dey 
don't know nothin'." 

Tom he lost his temper. I notice a person 
'most always does that 's got laid out in an argu- 
ment. He told us to shut up, and maybe we 'd 
feel better. Then he see a town clock away 
off down yonder, and he took up the glass and 

looked at it, and then looked at his silver turnip, 
and then at the clock, and then at the turnip 
again, and says: 

" That 's funny ! That clock 's near about an 
hour fast." 

So he put up his turnip. Then he see another 
clock, and took a look, and it was an hour fast 
too. That puzzled him. 

"That 's a mighty curious thing," he says. 
" I don't understand it." 

Then he took the glass and hunted up 
another clock, and sure enough it was an hour 
fast too. Then his eyes began to spread and 
his breath to come out kinder gaspy like, and 
he says : 

"Ger-reat Scott, it 's the longitude J" 

I says, considerable scared : 

"Well, what 's been and gone and happened 
now ? " 

" Why, the thing that 's happened is that this 
old bladder has slid over Illinois and Indiana 
and Ohio like nothing, and this is the east end 
of Pennsylvania or New York, or somewheres 
around there." 

"Tom Sawyer, you don't mean it ! " 

"Yes, I do, and it 's dead sure. We 've 
covered about fifteen degrees of longitude since 
we left St. Louis yesterday afternoon, and them 
clocks are right. We 've come close on to eight 
hundred miles." 

I did n't believe it, but it made the cold 
streaks trickle down my back just the same. 
In my experience I knowed it would n't take 
much short of two weeks to do it down the 
Mississippi on a raft. 

Jim was working his mind and studying. 
Pretty soon he says : 

" Mars Tom, did you say dem clocks uz 
right ? " 

"Yes, they 're right." 

" Ain't yo' watch right, too ? " 

" She 's right for St. Louis, but she 's an hour 
wrong for here." 

" Mars Tom, is you tryin' to let on dat de 
time ain't de same everywheres ? " 

" No, it ain't the same everywheres, by a long 

Jim looked distressed, and says : 

"It grieves me to hear you talk like dat, 
Mars Tom; I 's right down ashamed to hear 

i8 9 3.; 


II 9 

you talk like dat, arter de way you 's been 
raised. Yassir, it 'd break yo' Aunt Polly's 
heart to hear you." 

Tom was astonished. He looked Jim over, 
wondering, and did n't say nothing, and Jim 
went on : 

" Mars Tom, who put de people out yonder 
in St. Louis ? De Lord done it. Who put de 
people here whar we is ? De Lord done it. 
Ain' dey bofe his children ? 'Cose dey is. 
Well, den ! is he gwine to scriminate 'twixt 
'em ? " 

" Scriminate ! I never heard such ignorance. 
There ain't no discriminating about it. When 
he makes you and some more of his children 
black, and makes the rest of us white, what do 
you call that ? " 

Jim see the p'int. He was stuck. He 
could n't answer. Tom says : 

" He does discriminate, you see, when he 
wants to ; but this case here ain't no discrimina- 
tion of his, it 's man's. The Lord made the 
day, and he made the night ; but he did n't in- 
vent the hours, and he did n't distribute them 
around. Man did that." 

'• Mars Tom, is dat so ? Man done it ? " 

" Certainly." 

" Who tole him he could ? " 

" Nobody. He never asked." 

Jim studied a minute, and says : 

" Well, dat do beat me. I would n't 'a' tuck 
no sich resk. But some people ain't scared o' 
nothin'. Dey bangs right ahead; dey don't care 
what happens. So den dey 's allays an hour's 
diff'unce everywhah, Mars Tom?" 

" An hour ? No ! It 's four minutes differ- 
ence for every degree of longitude, you know. 
Fifteen of 'em 's an hour, thirty of 'em 's two 
hours, and so on. When it 's one o'clock 
Tuesday morning in England, it 's eight o'clock 
the night before in New York." 

Jim moved a little away along the locker, and 
you could see he was insulted. He kept shak- 
ing his head and muttering, and so I slid along 
to him and patted him on the leg, and petted 
him up, and got him over the worst of his feel- 
ings, and then he says : 

" Mars Tom talkin' sich talk as dat ! Choos- 
day in one place en Monday in t' other, bofe in 
the same day ! Huck, dis ain't no place to joke 

— up here whah we is. Two days in one day ! 
How you gwine to got two days inter one 
day ? Can't git two hours inter one hour, kin 
you ? Can't git two niggers inter one nigger 
skin, kin you ? Can't git two gallons of whisky 
inter a one-gallon jug, kin you? No, sir, 
't would strain de jug. Yes, en even den you 
could n't, / don't believe. Why, looky here, 
Huck, s'posen de Choosday was New Year's — 
now den ! is you gwine to tell me it 's dis year 
in one place en las' year in t' other, bofe in de 
identical same minute ? It 's de beatenest rub- 
bage! I can't stan' it — I can't stan' to hear tell 
'bout it." Then he begun to shiver and turn 
gray, and Tom says: 

" Now what 's the matter ? What 's the 
trouble ? " 

Jim could hardly speak, but he says: 

" Mars Tom, you ain't jokin', en it 's so ? " 

" No, I 'm not, and it is so." 

Jim shivered again, and says : 

" Den dat Monday could be de las' day, en 
dey would n't be no las' day in England, en 
de dead would n't be called. We must n't go 
over dah. Mars Tom. Please git him to turn 
back ; I wants to be whah — " 

All of a sudden we see something, and all 
jumped up, and forgot everything and begun 
to gaze. Tom says : 

"Ain't that the — " He catched his breath, 
then says : " It is, sure as you live ! It 's the 
ocean ! " 

That made me and Jim catch our breath, 
too. Then we all stood petrified but happy, 
for none of us had ever seen an ocean, or ever 
expected to. Tom kept muttering : 

"Atlantic Ocean — Atlantic. Land, don't it 
sound great! And that's it — and we are 
looking at it — we ! Why, it 's just too splendid 
to believe ! " 

Then we see a big bank of black smoke ; 
and when we got nearer, it was a city — and 
a monster she was, too, with a thick fringe of 
ships around one edge ; and we wondered if it 
was New York, and begun to jaw and dispute 
about it, and, first we knowed, it slid from under 
us and went flying behind, and here we was, out 
over the very ocean itself, and going like a 
cyclone. Then we woke up, I tell you ! 

We made a break aft and raised a wail, and 




begun to beg the professor to turn back and 
land us, but he jerked out his pistol and mo- 
tioned us back, and we went, but nobody will 
ever know how bad we felt. 

The land was gone, all but a little streak, like 
a snake, away off on the edge of the water, and 
down under us was just ocean, ocean, ocean — 
millions of miles of it, heaving and pitching and 
squirming, and white sprays blowing from the 
wave-tops, and only a few ships in sight, wal- 


lowing around and laying over, first on one side 
and then on t' other, and sticking their bows un- 
der and then their sterns; and before long there 
war n't no ships at all, and we had the sky and 
the whole ocean all to ourselves, and the room- 
iest place I ever see and the lonesomest. 

Chapter IV. 

And it got lonesomer and lonesomer. There 
was the big sky up there, empty and awful 
deep; and the ocean down there, without a 
thing on it but just the waves. All around us 

was a ring, where the sky and the water come 
together ; yes, a monstrous big ring it was, and 
we right in the dead center of it — plumb in the 
center. We was racing along like a prairie fire, 
but it never made any difference, we could n't 
seem to git past that center no way. I couldn't 
see that we ever gained an inch on that ring. 
It made a body feel creepy, it was so curious 
and unaccountable. 

Well, everything was so awful still that we 
got to talking in a very low voice, and 
kept on getting creepier and lonesomer 
and less and less talky, till at last the 
talk ran dry altogether, and we just set 
there and " thunk," as Jim calls it, and 
never said a word the longest time. 

The professor never stirred till the 
sun was overhead, then he stood up and 
put a kind of triangle to his eye, and 
Tom said it was a sextant and he was 
taking the sun to see whereabouts the 
balloon was. Then he ciphered a a lit- 
tle and looked in a book, and then he 
begun to carry on again. He said lots 
of wild things, and amongst others he 
said he would keep up this hundred- 
mile gait till the middle of to-morrow 
afternoon, and then he 'd land in London. 
We said we would be humbly thank- 

He was turning away, but he whirled 
round when we said that, and give us a 
long look of his blackest kind — one of 
the maliciousest and suspiciousest looks 
I ever see. Then he says : 

" You want to leave me. Don't try 
to deny it." 
We did n't know what to say, so we held in 
and did n't say nothing at all. 

He went aft and set down, but he could n't 
seem to git that thing out of his mind. Every 
now and then he would rip out something 
about it, and try to make us answer him, but 
we das n't. 

It got lonesomer and lonesomer right along, 

and it did seem to me I could n't stand it. It 

was still worse when night begun to come on. 

By and by Tom pinched me and whispers: 

" Look ! " 

I took a glance aft, and see the professor tak- 

■ 8o 3 .] 



ing a whet out of a bottle. I did n't like the 
looks of that. By and by he took another drink, 
and pretty soon he begun to sing. It was dark 
now, and getting black and stormy. He went 
on singing, wilder and wilder, and the thunder 
begun to mutter, and the wind to wheeze and 

wished he would start up his noise again, so 
we could tell where he was. By and by there 
was a flash of lightning, and we see him start 
to get up, but he staggered and fell down. 
We heard him scream out in the dark : 

"They don't want to go to England. All 


moan amongst the ropes, and altogether it was 
awful. It got so black we could n't see him any 
more, and wished we could n't hear him, but 
we could. Then he got still; but he war n't 
still ten minutes till we got suspicious, and 
Vol. XXI.— 16. 

right, I '11 change the course. They want to 
leave me. I know they do. Well, they shall — 
and now ! " 

I 'most died when he said that. Then he 
was still again, — still so long I could n't bear 




it, and it did seem to me the lightning would n't 
ever come again. But at last there was a 
blessed flash, and there he was, on his hands 
and knees, crawling, and not four feet from 
us. My, but his eyes was terrible ! He made 
a lunge for Tom, and says, " Overboard you 
go ! " but it was already pitch-dark again, and 
I could n't see whether he got him or not, 
and Tom did n't make a sound. 

There was another long, horrible wait ; then 

"the thunder boomed and the lightning glared, and the wind sung and 
screamed in the rigging." 

there was a flash, and I see Tom's head sink 
down outside the boat and disappear. He 
was on the rope-ladder that dangled down in 
the air from the gunnel. The professor let off 
a shout and jumped for him, and straight off it 
was pitch-dark again, and Jim groaned out, 

" Po' Mars Tom, he 's a goner ! " and made a 
jump for the professor, but the professor war n't 

Then we heard a couple of terrible screams, 
and then another not so loud, and then another 
that was 'way below, and you could only just 
hear it; audi heard Jim say, "Po' Mars Tom! " 
Then it was awful still, and I reckon a per- 
son could 'a' counted four thousand before the 
next flash come. When it come I see Jim on 
his knees, with his arms 
on the locker and his 
face buried in them, and 
he was crying. Before 
I could look over the 
edge it was all dark 
again, and I was glad, 
because I did n't want 
to see. But when the 
next flash come, I was 
watching, and down 
there I see somebody 
a-swinging in the wind 
on the ladder, and it 
was Tom ! 

" Come up ! " I shouts; 
" come up, Tom ! " 

His voice was so weak, 
and the wind roared so, I 
could n't make out what 
he said, but I thought 
he asked was the pro- 
fessor up there. I shouts : 
" No, he 's down in 
the ocean ! Come up ! 
Can we help you ? " 

Of course, all this in 
the dark. 

" Huck, who is you 
hollerin' at ? " 

" I 'm hollerin' at 

" Oh, Huck, how kin 
you act so, when you 
know po' Mars Tom 's — " Then he let off an 
awful scream, and flung his head and his arms 
back and let off another one, because there 
was a white glare just then, and he had raised 
up his face just in time to see Tom's, as white as 
snow, rise above the gunnel and look him right 

'8 9 3-: 


in the eye. He thought it was Tom's ghost, 
you see. 

Tom dumb aboard, and when Jim found it 
was him, and not his ghost, he hugged him, 
and called him all sorts of loving names, and 
carried on like he was gone crazy, he was so 
glad. Says I : 

" What did you wait for, Tom ? Why did n't 
you come up at first ? " 

" I das n't, Huck. I knowed somebody 
plunged down past me, but I did n't know 
who it was in the dark. It could 'a' been you, 
it could 'a' been Jim." 

That was the way with Tom Sawyer — al- 
ways sound. He war n't coming up till he 
knowed where the professor was. 

The storm let go about this time with all 
its might ; and it was dreadful the way the 
thunder boomed and tore, and the lightning 
glared out, and the wind sung and screamed 
in the rigging, and the rain come down. One 
second you could n't see your hand before you, 
and the next you could count the threads in 
your coat-sleeve, and see a whole wide desert 
of waves pitching and tossing through a kind 
of veil of rain. A storm like that is the love- 
liest thing there is, but it ain't at its best when 
you are up in the sky and lost, and it 's wet 
and lonesome, and there 's just been a death in 
the family. 

We set there huddled up in the bow, and 
talked low about the poor professor; and 
everybody was sorry for him, and sorry the 
world had made fun of him and treated him so 
harsh, when he was doing the best he could, 
and had n't a friend nor nobody to encourage 
him and keep him from brooding his mind 
away and going deranged. There was plenty 
of clothes and blankets and everything at the 
other end, but we thought we 'd ruther take 
the rain than go meddling back there. 

Chapter V. 

We tried to make some plans, but we 
could n't come to no agreement. Me and 
Jim was for turning around and going back 
home, but Tom allowed that by the time day- 
light come, so we could see our way, we would 
be so far toward England that we might as 


well go there, and come back in a ship, and 
have the glory of saying we done it. 

About midnight the storm quit and the moon 
come out and lit up the ocean, and we begun 
to feel comfortable and drowsy; so we stretched 
out on the lockers and went to sleep, and never 
woke up again till sun-up. The sea was spark- 
ling like di'monds, and it was nice weather, 
and pretty soon our things was all dry again. 

We went aft to find some breakfast, and the 
first thing we noticed was that there was a dim 
light burning in a compass back there under a 
hood. Then Tom was disturbed. He says : 

" You know what that means, easy enough. 
It means that somebody has got to stay on 
watch and steer this thing the same as he 
would a ship, or she '11 wander around and go 
wherever the wind wants her to." 

" Well," I says, " what 's she been doing 
since — er — since we had the accident ? " 

"Wandering," he says, kinder troubled — 
" wandering, without any doubt. She 's in a 
wind, now, that 's blowing her south of east. 
We don't know how long that 's been going 
on, either." 

So then he p'inted her east, and said he 
would hold her there till we rousted out the 
breakfast. The professor had laid in every- 
thing a body could want ; he could n't 'a' been 
better fixed. There was n't no milk for the 
coffee, but there was water, and everything 
else you could want, and a charcoal stove and 
the fixings for it, and pipes and cigars and 
matches; and wine and liquor, which war n't 
in our line; and books, and maps, and charts, 
and an accordion ; and furs, and blankets, and 
no end of rubbish, like brass beads and brass 
jewelry, which Tom said was a sure sign that 
he had an idea of visiting among savages. 
There was money, too. Yes, the professor 
was well enough fixed. 

After breakfast Tom learned me and Jim how 
to steer, and divided us all up into four-hour 
watches, turn and turn about; and when his 
watch was out I took his place, and he got out 
the professor's papers and pens and wrote a letter 
home to his Aunt Polly, telling her everything 
that had happened to us, and dated it "/« the 
Welkin, approaching England" and folded it 
together and stuck it fast with a red wafer, and 




directed it, and wrote above the direction, in big 
writing, " From Tom Sawyer, the Erronort" and 
said it would stump old Nat Parsons, the post- 
master, when it come along in the mail. I says : 

"Tom Sawyer, this ain't no welkin; it 's a 

" Well, now, who said it was a welkin, smarty ? " 

" You 've wrote it on the letter, anyway." 

'• What of it ? That don't mean that the 
balloon 's the welkin." 

" Oh, I thought it did. Well, then, what is a 
welkin ? " 

I see in a minute he was stuck. He raked 
and scraped around in his mind, but he could n't 
find nothing, so he had to say : 

" /don't know, and nobody don't know. It 's 
just a word, and it 's a mighty good word, too. 
There ain't many that lays over it. I don't 
believe there 's any that does." 

" Shucks ! " I says. " But what does it mean ? 
— that 's the p'int." 

" /don't know what it means, I tell you. It 's 
a word that people uses for — for — well, it 's 
ornamental. They don't put ruffles on a shirt 
to keep a person warm, do they ? " 

" Course they don't." 

" But they put them on, don't they ? " 


" All right, then ; that letter I wrote is a shirt, 
and the welkin 's the ruffle on it." 

I judged that that would gravel Jim, and it 

" Now, Mars Tom, it ain't no use to talk like 
dat; en, moreover, it 's sinful. You knows a let- 
ter ain't no shirt, en dey ain't no ruffles on it, 
nuther. Dey ain't no place to put 'em on; you 
can't put 'em on, and dey would n't stay ef you 

" Oh, do shut up, and wait till something 's 
started that you know something about." 

"Why, Mars Tom, sholy you can't mean to 
say I don't know about shirts, when, good- 
ness knows, I 's toted home de washin' ever 
sence — " 

" I tell you, this has n't got anything to do 
with shirts. I only — " 

" Why, Mars Tom, you said yo'self dat a 
letter — " 

" Do you want to drive me crazy ? Keep 
still. I only used it as a metaphor." 

That word kinder bricked us up for a minute. 
Then Jim says — rather timid, because he see 
Tom was getting pretty tetchy: 

" Mars Tom, what is a metaphor ? " 

"A metaphor 's a — well, it's a — a — a meta- 
phor 's an illustration." He see that did n't git 
home, so he tried again. " When I say birds of 
a feather flocks together, it 's a metaphorical 
way of saying — " 

" But dey don't, Mars Tom. No, sir, 'deed 
dey don't. Dey ain't no feathers dat 's more 
alike den a bluebird en a jaybird, but ef you 
waits till you catches dan birds together, 
you'll — " 

" Oh, give us a rest ! You can't get the sim- 
plest little thing through your thick skull. Now 
don't bother me any more." 

Jim was satisfied to stop. He was dreadful 
pleased with himself for catching Tom out. 
The minute Tom begun to talk about birds I 
judged he was a goner, because Jim knowed 
more about birds than both of us put together. 
You see, he had killed hundreds and hundreds 
of them, and that 's the way to find out about 
birds. That 's the way people does that writes 
books about birds, and loves them so that 
they '11 go hungry and tired and take any 
amount of trouble to find a new bird and kill 
it. Their name is ornithologers, and I could 
have been an ornithologer myself, because I 
always loved birds and creatures; and I started 
out to learn how to be one, and I see a bird 
setting on a limb of a high tree, singing with its 
head tilted back and its mouth open, and before 
I thought I fired, and his song stopped and he 
fell straight down from the limb, all limp like a 
rag, and I run and picked him up and he was 
dead, and his body was warm in my hand, and 
his head rolled about this way and that, like his 
neck was broke, and there was a little white 
skin over his eyes, and one little drop of blood 
on the side of his head; and, laws ! I could n't 
see nothing more for the tears; and I hain't 
never murdered no creature since that war n't 
doing me no harm, and I ain't going to. 

But I was aggravated about that welkin. I 
wanted to know. I got the subject up again, 
and then Tom explained, the best he could. 
He said when a person made a big speech the 
newspapers said the shouts of the people made 

i8g 3 .] 





the welkin ring. He said they always said that, 
but none of them ever told what it was, so he 
allowed it just meant outdoors and up high. 
Well, that seemed sensible enough, so I was 
satisfied, and said so. That pleased Tom and 
put him in a good humor again, and he says : 

" Well, it 's all right, then ; and we '11 let by- 
gones be bygones. I don't know for certain 

what a welkin is, but when we land in London 
we '11 make it ring, anyway, and don't you 
forget it." 

He said an erronort was a person who sailed 
around in balloons; and said it was a mighty 
sight finer to be Tom Sawyer the Erronort than 
to be Tom Sawyer the Traveler, and we would 
be heard of all round the world, if we pulled 




through all right, and so he would n't give 
shucks to be a traveler now. 

Toward the middle of the afternoon we got 
everything ready to land, and we felt pretty 
good, too, and proud; and we kept watching 
with the glasses, like Columbus discovering 
America. But we could n't see nothing but 
ocean. The afternoon wasted out and the sun 
shut down, and still there war n't no land any- 
wheres. We wondered what was the matter, 
but reckoned it would come out all right, so we 
went on steering east, but went up on a higher 
level so we would n't hit any steeples or 
mountains in the dark. 

It was my watch till midnight, and then it 
was Jim's ; but Tom stayed up, because he said 
ship-captains done that when they was making 
the land, and did n't stand no regular watch. 

Well, when daylight come, Jim give a shout, 
and we jumped up and looked over, and there 
was the land sure enough, — land all around, as 
far as you could see, and perfectly level and 
yaller. We did n't know how long we 'd been 
over it. There war n't no trees, nor hills, nor 

and grabbed the glasses and hunted everywheres 
for London, but could n't find hair nor hide of 
it, nor any other settlement, — nor any sign of 
a lake or a river, either. Tom was clean beat. 
He said it war n't his notion of England; he 
thought England looked like America, and 
always had that idea. So he said we better 
have breakfast, and then drop down and in- 
quire the quickest way to London. We cut the 
breakfast pretty short, we was so impatient. As 
we slanted along down, the weather began to 
moderate, and pretty soon we shed our furs. 
But it kept on moderating, and in a precious 
little while it was 'most too moderate. We was 
close down, now, and just blistering! 

We settled down to within thirty foot of the 
land, — that is, it was land if sand is land ; for 
this was n't anything but pure sand. Tom and 
me dumb down the ladder and took a run to 
stretch our legs, and it felt amazing good, — that 
is, the stretching did, but the sand scorched our 
feet like hot embers. Next, we see somebody 
coming, and started to meet him ; but we heard 
Jim shout, and looked around and he was fairly 


rocks, nor towns, and Tom and Jim had took it 
for the sea. They took it for the sea in a dead 
cam ; but we was so high up, anyway, that if it 
had been the sea and rough, it would 'a' looked 
smooth, all the same, in the night, that way. 
We was all in a powerful excitement now, 

dancing, and making signs, and yelling. We 
could n't make out what he said, but we was 
scared anyway, and begun to heel it back to 
the balloon. When we got close enough, we 
understood the words, and they made me sick : 
" Run! Run fo' yo' life! Hit 's a lion; I kin 




see him thoo de glass! Run, boys; do please 
heel it de bes' you kin. He 's bu'sted outen de 
menagerie, en dey ain't nobody to stop him ! " 

It made Tom fly, but it took the stiffening all 
out of my legs. I could only just gasp along 
the way you do in a dream when there 's a 
ghost gaining on you. 

Tom got to the ladder and shinned up it a 
piece and waited for me ; and as soon as I got 
a foothold on it he shouted to Jim to soar 
away. But Jim had clean lost his head, and 
said he had forgot how. So Tom shinned 
along up and told me to follow ; but the lion 
was arriving, fetching a most ghastly roar with 
every lope, and my legs shook so I das n't try 
to take one of them out of the rounds for fear 
the other one would give way under me. 

But Tom was aboard by this time, and he 
started the balloon up a little, and stopped it 
again as soon as the end of the ladder was 
ten or twelve feet above ground. And there 
was the lion, a-ripping around under me, and 
roaring and springing up in the air at the lad- 
der, and only missing it about a quarter of an 
inch, it seemed to me. It was delicious to be 
out of his reach, perfectly delicious, and made 
me feel good and thankful all up one side ; but 
I was hanging there helpless and could n't 
climb, and that made me feel perfectly wretched 
and miserable all down the other. It is most 
seldom that a person feels so mixed, like that ; 
and it is not to be recommended, either. 

Tom asked me what he 'd better do, but I 
did n't know. He asked me if I could hold on 
whilst he sailed away to a safe place and left 
the lion behind. I said I could if he did n't go 
no higher than he was now ; but if he went 

higher I would lose my head and fall, sure. So 
he said, " Take a good grip," and he started. 

" Don't go so fast," I shouted. " It makes 
my head swim." 

He had started like a lightning express. He 
slowed down, and we glided over the sand 
slower, but still in a kind of sickening way; for it 
is uncomfortable to see things sliding and glid- 
ing under you like that, and not a sound. 

But pretty soon there was plenty of sound, 
for the lion was catching up. His noise fetched 
others. You could see them coming on the lope 
from every direction, and pretty soon there was a 
couple of dozen of them under me, jumping up 
at the ladder and snarling and snapping at 
each other; and so we went skimming along 
over the sand, and these fellers doing what they 
could to help us to not forgit the occasion; and 
then some other beasts come, without an invite, 
and they started a regular riot down there. 

We see this plan was a mistake. We 
could n't ever git away from them at this gait, 
and I could n't hold on forever. So Tom took 
a think, and struck another idea. That was, to 
kill a lion with the pepper-box revolver, and 
then sail away while the others stopped to fight 
over the carcass. So he stopped the balloon still, 
and done it, and then we sailed off while the fuss 
was going on, and come down a quarter of a 
mile off, and they helped me aboard ; but by 
the time we was out of reach again, that gang 
was on hand once more. And when they see 
we was really gone and they could n't get us, 
they sat down on their hams and looked up at 
us so kind of disappointed that it was as much 
as a person could do not to see their side of the 

( To be continued.) 




By Dr. Charles Alexander Eastman. 

i. hakada, "the pitiful last." 

Some persons value their earlier recollections 
and experiences much more than others do. 
Many children are very inquisitive, and forget 
the object of their apparent interest as soon 
as they receive the information they seek; but 
there are a few who have the gift of memory, 
and store up truths pure and simple. One 
would naturally think that this could be true 
only among the children of the more ad- 
vanced races. But we can say for the children 
of uncivilized nations that they hear very little 
from their parents that can be called instruc- 
tion, what they receive coming direct from Na- 
ture — the greatest schoolmistress of all. The 
Indian children were keen to follow her instruc- 
tions, and derived from her the principles of a 
true and noble life according to the under- 
standing of our people. 

Of course I myself do not remember when 
I first saw the day, but my brothers have viv- 
idly recalled the time with much mirth ; for it 
was the custom of the Sioux that, when a boy 
was born into a family, if there was a brother he 
must plunge into the water, or roll in the snow 
naked if it was winter-time ; and if he was not 
big enough to do either of these himself, water 
was thrown on him. If the new-born had a sis- 
ter, she must be immersed. The idea was that 
a warrior had come to camp, and the other 
children must display some act of hardihood. 

I was so unfortunate as to be the youngest 
of five children who, soon after I was born, 
were left motherless. I had to bear the hu- 
miliating name " Hakada," meaning " the piti- 
ful last," until I should earn a more appropriate 
and dignified name. I was little else than a 
plaything for the rest of the children. 

My mother, who was known as the hand- 
somest woman of all the Nidowakanton and 
Wahpaton Sioux, was dangerously ill, and one 
Vol. XXI.— 17. "9 

of the " medicine-men " who attended her said : 
" Another medicine-man has come into exist- 
ence, but the mother must die. Therefore let 
him bear the name ' Mysterious Medicine- 
man.'" But one of the others noisily interfered, 
saying that an uncle of the child already bore 
that name, so to the Sioux I am still only 

This beautiful woman, who had every feature 
of a Caucasian descent, with the exception of 
her luxuriant black hair and deep black eyes, 
on her death-bed held tightly to her bosom the 
boy, while she whispered a few words to her 
mother-in-law. She said, " I give you this boy 
for your own. I cannot trust my own mother 
with him; she will neglect him, and he will 
surely die." 

The woman to whom these words were 
spoken was rather more enterprising and in- 
telligent-looking than are most of the women 
of her race. In stature she was below the 
average, small and active for her age (for she 
was then fully fifty). My mother's judgment 
concerning her own mother was well founded, 
for soon after her death that old lady appeared, 
and declared that Hakada was too young to 
live without a mother. She offered the sug- 
gestion that I should be kept by her until I 
should die, and then she would put me in my 
mother's grave. Of course my other grand- 
mother at once denounced the suggestion as 
a very wicked one, and refused to give me up. 

The babe was done up as usual in an upright 
cradle made from an oak board two and a 
half feet long and one and a half wide. On 
one side of it was nailed with two brass-headed 
tacks the richly embroidered sack, which was 
open in front and laced up and down with 
long buckskin strings. Over the arms of the 
infant was a wooden bow, the ends of which 
were firmly attached to the board, so that if 
the cradle should fall, the child's head and face 



would be protected. On this bow were hung 
curious playthings — strings of artistically cut 
and carved bones, and hoofs of deer, which rat- 
tled when the little hands moved them. 


In this upright cradle I lived, played, and 
slept the greater part of the time during the 
first few months of my life. Whether I was 
made to stand against a pole or suspended 
from the bough of a tree while my grandmother 
cut wood, or whether I was carried on her 
back, or conveniently balanced by another child 
in a similar cradle hung on the opposite side 
of the neck of a pony, I was still in that oaken 

This grandmother, whose name meant Sweet 
Wild Singer, was a patient woman, and also re- 
markably industrious and active ; although she 
had already lived through fifty years of hard- 
ship, she was still a wonder to the young 

maidens in the art of embroidering with beads 
and porcupine quills. She showed no less 
enthusiasm over Hakada than she had felt when 
she held her first-born, the boy's father, in her 
arms. Every little attention that is due to a 
loved child she performed with much concern 
and devotion. She made all my little and 
scanty garments and my tiny moccasins with 
a great deal of taste. It was said by all that 
I could not have had more attention had my 
mother been living. She was a great singer. 
Sometimes, when Hakada wakened too early 
in the morning, she would sing to him some- 
thing like the following : 


Sleep, sleep, my boy ; the Chippewas 

Are far away — are far away. 
Sleep, sleep, my boy ; prepare to meet 

The foe by day — the foe by day! 
The cowards will not dare to fight 

Till morning break — till morning break. 
Sleep, sleep, my child, while still 't is night ; 

Then bravely wake — then bravely wake ! 

The Dakota women were wont to cut and 
bring their fuel from the woods, and, in fact, to 
do most of the work. This of necessity fell to 
their lot because the men must follow the game 
during the day. Very often my grandmother 
carried me with her, always engaged in a pre- 
tended dialogue with me. While she worked 
it was her habit to suspend me from a bough 
or a wild grape-vine, so that the least breeze 
would swing the cradle to and fro. 

I have been informed by my grandmother 
that when I was grown a little older and noticed 
things more, I was apparently capable of hold- 
ing extended conversations, in an unknown dia- 
lect, with birds and red squirrels. Once I fell 
asleep in my cradle suspended from a bough 
five or six feet from the ground, while Sweet 
Wild Singer was some distance away, gathering 
bark for a canoe. A squirrel had found it con- 
venient to come upon the bow of my cradle and 
nibble his hickory-nut, until he awoke me by 
dropping the crumbs of his meal. My disap- 
proval of his intrusion was so decided that he 
had to take a sudden and quick flight to an- 
other tree, and from there he began to pour 
(I suppose) his wrath upon me, while I con- 
tinued in my objection to his presence so au- 

i8 S3 -: 



dibly that my grandmother soon came to my 
rescue, and compelled the intruder to go away. 
It was a common thing for birds to alight upon 
my cradle in the woods. 

My food was a troublesome question for 
Sweet Wild Singer. I have stated, however, 
that she was an adept. She prescribed the fol- 
lowing diet for me, and it was strictly carried out 
by herself. She cooked some wild rice and 
strained it, and mixed it with broth made from 
choice venison. She also pounded dried veni- 
son almost to a flour, and kept it in water 
till the nourishing juices were extracted, then 
mixed in some pounded maize, which is usually 
browned before pounding. This soup of wild 
rice, pounded maize, and venison was my main- 
stay. But soon my teeth came — much earlier 
than the white children usually cut theirs; and 
then my kind nurse gave me a little more va- 
ried food, and I did all my own grinding. 

I have said that my adopted mother was 
a very industrious woman. She used to make a 
great deal of maple-sugar, so that she kept some 
on hand almost all the year round, for special 
occasions, and for her grandchildren. How 
happy I must have been when she offered me 
the luxury of a stick of maple-candy which she 
herself had made purposely for me ! She made 
the candies ingeniously by filling with maple- 
sugar, ready to cake, the grooved bills of ducks 
and geese, and also bells made of birch bark 
with a string in the center. She presented 
some candy to me whenever I was especially 
good during the summer. 

After I left my cradle, I almost walked away 
from it, she told me. She then began calling my 
attention to natural objects. Whenever I heard 
the song of a bird, she would tell me what bird 
it came from, something after this fashion : 

" Hakada, listen to Shechoka (the robin) call- 
ing his mate. He says he has just found some- 
thing good to eat." Or, " Listen to Oopehauka 

( To be con 

(the thrush) ; he is singing for his little wife 
He will sing his best." When in the evening 
the whippoorwill started his song with vim, not 
further than a stone's throw from our tent in 
the woods, she would say to me: "Hush! It 
may be a Chippewa scout." 

Again, when I wakened at midnight, she 
would say : 

" Do not cry ! Hinakaga (the owl) is watch- 
ing you from the tree-top." 

I usually covered up my head, for I had per- 
fect faith in my grandmother's admonitions, and 
she had given me a dreadful idea of this bird. 
It was one of her legends that a little boy was 
once standing just outside of a teepee (tent), 
crying vigorously for his mother, when Hina- 
kaga swooped down in the darkness and car- 
ried the poor little fellow up among the trees. 
Nor was this all. It was well known that the hoot 
of the owl was commonly imitated by Indian 
scouts when on the war-path. There had been 
many dreadful massacres immediately following 
this call. Therefore it was wise to impress the 
call of this bird early upon the mind of the child. 

Indian children were trained so that they 
hardly ever cried much in the night. This was 
very expedient and necessary in their exposed life. 
In my infancy it was my grandmother's custom 
to put me to sleep, as she said, " with the birds," 
and to waken me with them, until it became a 
habit. She did this with an object in view. An 
Indian must always rise early, — almost too 
early, I think, — yet it was really a necessity. 
In the first place, as a hunter, he finds his game 
best at daybreak. Secondly, other tribes, when 
on the war-path, usually make their attack very 
early in the morning. Even when they are 
moving about leisurely, they like to arise before 
daylight, in order to travel when the air is cool, 
and unobserved, perchance, by their enemies. 
Therefore I was early accustomed to this habit 
of our people. 



By Henry S. Cornwell. 

(With Illustrations by F. S. Church.) 

Here, girls and boys, is a story for you — 

Not the ancient story 

Of old Mother Morey, 

Or Jack defiant 

Who killed the Giant, 
Or anything ever heard before, 
O'er and o'er, from years of yore, 
But a story that 's nice, unique, and new ! 

Once on a time, long, long ago, 

A wise old Owl to the trouble went 

Of trying a queer experiment. 

He called a Convention of Birds, to show 

How each the previous day had spent. 

It appears but a whim, 

But it seemed to him 
It would be a novel, agreeable way 
To pass the long midsummer day. 

So the birds came flocking from far and 

Fanning the morning atmosphere, 
Some in wonder and more in fear, 
For Owls, it is clear, I may tell you here, 

Not only catch and eat poor mice, 
But birdies also, and think them nice. 

So the Finches and Thrushes 
Flocked out from the bushes, 
And the Snipe and the Sandpiper came from 

the rushes ; 
And, leaving awhile her pendent nest, 
The Oriole came 
Like a winged flame ; 
And the Cedar-bird with his tufted crest, 
And the Humming-bird like a living jewel, 
And the ravenous Shrikes so fierce and cruel, 
And Cuckoos with black and yellow bills, 
Larks, and Martins, and whistling Plover, 
And more than here can be mentioned over 
Of Sparrows, and Swallows, and Whippoor- 
wills ! 

So the Owl he perched on a dead oak limb, 
And, assuming an air austere and grim, 
Adjusted his goggles to keep the light 
From his sensitive eyes (for the Owl is quite 
As blind as a bat by day, — or blinder); 


Looked over his docket by way of reminder 
(A docket 's a list of cases in court 
That have yet to report) ; 
Then said he, "Let me see!" 
(A very odd phrase from him to fall 
When we think he hardly could see at all!) 
" Let me see ! " said he ; 
" Let the court be still ! " 
(Here the Woodpecker tapped three times 
with his bill.) 
" Let Mrs. Redbreast cease her sobbin' ; 
And, Sheriff Magpie, bring in the 
Robin ! " 

Then the Owl arose and looked around — 
For he is renowned for seeming profound, 
And gave a precursory " Hem ! " and 

And asked in a magisterial way, 
" Robin, where were you yesterday ? " 

" Well," said the Robin, politely bobbin', 
" I 've been a-robbin' — " 
And meek as a flower beginning to wilt, he 
Did appear guilty. 
" Stealing, your Honor, several berries 
From Widow Jones, and a few ripe cher- 

Then the Owl he winked his large round 

And shrugged his shoulder and stretched 

his wing. 



" You 're a jail-bird, then," was his reply ; 
" For, Robin, this is a serious thing, 
And you must in future in Sing-Sing sing ! 
Though it grip as hard as an iron claw, 
Wrongdoers must learn to respect the 
law ! " 

" Next! " said the Owl, as he rolled his head; 
" Let the work be sped ! 
Gay Mr. Jay, just step this way. 
And what were you doing yesterday ? " 
" Learning like you to be good and wise ! " 
The Jay replies. 
But the Owl he only winked his eyes. 

" Learning your lesson, 

eh ? What was that ? 

To steal the meat of 

the farmer's cat ? 
Or peck the eyes of the 
sleeping bat ? " 
" Learning my alpha- 
bet," answered the 


" A hard, long column, 
beginning with A ! " 
" And how far did you 
get," said the Owl, 
"I pray?" 
"Only to J," said the laughing Jay; 
" I 'm ashamed to say, 
Only to J!" 
Then the Chipping-bird chippered, the Cat- 
bird mewed, 
And a scene of general mirth ensued ; 
They thought it absurd that so clever a 

Had n't even got down to K! 

" Keep on," said the Owl ; " 't is very proper 
To fill with grist your mental hopper ; 
Great things from small beginnings grow, 
As I am here this day to show ! 

Where is the Wren ? 
Yes," said the Owl, " oh, where and when 
Shall I ever get hold of that troublesome 
Wren ? " 

" I am here," said the Wren, as she sprang 
from her nest, 

' 'ONLY TO J.' 




Where her five brown eggs had been warmed 
by her breast, 

But she fluttered and shook 
With a frightened look, 
Like a lily that trembles above a brook, 
While she modestly said, 
As she bowed her head, 
" I beg the Court's pardon, 
But in yonder old garden 

"enough!'" said the owl, '"i will take the case 
of yol'r friend, the bluebird, in your place.'" 

My eggs will grow cold if deprived of their 
" Enough ! " said the Owl, " I will take the case 
Of your friend, the Bluebird, in your place." 

But the Bluebird only could mope and muse; 
He suffered, it seemed, from a fit of the blues. 

And indeed it is true. 

He did appear blue — 
Blue as a fleck of April sky, 
Blue as a dab of indigo dye, 
Or blue as the laws of the Nutmeg State 

Of 1638! 

But the Owl, with a leer 

I can't imitate here, 
Said, "The case to my mind is suspiciously 

queer ; 
And as to the law I am somewhat perplexed, 
Decision 's reserved till Friday next ! " 

Being called by name, 
Next the Yellow-bird came. 
"And where," said the Owl, "have you been 
of late ? 

By your heaving breast 
You seem distressed. 
Pray what to the Court have you to state ? " 
Then the poor meek bird began to tell 
How, ever since she left the shell, 
She had n't been quite like other birds 
(And she seemed to sigh as she spoke the 
She said that each one of her 
Playmates made fun of her, 
And would n't accept her offers of amity, 
But tittered and twittered at her calamity — 
The Crow cawed at her, the Mocking-bird 

mocked her, 
In a way that made her ashamed, and 

shocked her, 
And drove her at last to see the doctor ! 

"And what," asked the Owl, "was your 
complaint ? 
Were you lame, dyspeptic, asthmatic, or 
faint ? 

I hope it 's not local, 
Affecting your vocal 
Attainments; your song, 
Though not very strong, 
Is pleasing. I hope you '11 recover ere long." 
And the Yellow-bird answered, beginning to 

For shame, " I 've a touch of the jaundice, 
I think; 

For, as you may discover, 
I am yellow all over — 
Indeed, as any one may behold, 
As yellow as cowslips, butter, or gold!" 
"I excuse you," the Owl said; "don't stay, 
For it might be catching! — don't come this 

Who next in order might appear, 
Can only be conjectured here ; 
For at this critical point the talk 
Was interrupted by a Hawk ! — 
A great, grim, gray and cruel thing, 




Sharp of talon and strong of wing, 
Who, swooping from his forest height, 
The whole Convention put to flight. 

What a terrible time, as he came near, 
Of hurry and worry and flurry and fear ! 
They fled together, or fled alone, 
Like leaves of autumn, whirlwind-blown, 
Hither and thither, 
They did n't care whither, 
For little time was there to pause; 
In this merciless game of hide-and-seek 
They could only cry and clamor and shriek: 
" Get out of the way of his barbarous beak ! 
Beware of his talons — his great big claws ! " 

While everywhere in the tumult flew 
Feathers yellow, and brown, and blue. 
And the story ends by saying : Here 
A boy who had long been watching 

With bow and arrow, sent a dart 
That pierced the tyrant through the heart ! 

And so, whene'er I chance to view 
A bird with plumage all askew — 
With topknot torn, or broken wing, 
I say to myself, "Alas ! poor thing, 
'T is very clear to my apprehension, 
That you have been to The Owl's Con- 


By Henrietta Christian Wright. 

When the man in the moon was a little boy, 

All the mountains were little hills, 

The oceans were tiny little lakes, 

The rivers were little rills. 

The elephants were the size of mice, 

The eagles the size of bees; 

The robins were the size of gnats, 

There was only grass for trees. 

There were no isthmuses, straits, or capes, 

No islands or promontories ; 

And the fairy godmothers kept the schools, 

And taught riddles and fairy stories. 

pa. v., 

By Edmund Clarence Stedman. 

Here where the curfew 

Still, they say, rings, 
Time rested long ago, 

Folding his wings ; 
Here, on old Norwich's 

Out-along road, 
Cousin Lucretia 

Had her abode. 

Norridge, not Nor-wich 

(See Mother Goose), 
Good enough English 

For a song's use. 
Side and roof shingled, 

All of a piece, 
Here was the cottage of 

Cousin Lucrece. 

Living forlornly on 

Nothing a year, 
How she took comfort 

Does not appear; 
How kept her body, 

On what they gave, 
Out of the poorhouse, 

Out of the grave. 

Highly connected ? 

Straight as the Nile 
Down from "the Gard'ners' 

Gardiner's Isle 


(Three bugles, chevron gules, 

Hand upon sword), 

Of the third lord. 

Bent almost double, 

Deaf as a witch, 
Gout her chief trouble — 

Just as if rich ; 
Vain of her ancestry, 

Mouth all agrin, 
Nose half-way meeting her 

Sky-pointed chin ; 

Ducking her forehead-top, 

Wrinkled and bare, 
"With a colonial 

Furbelowed air; 
Greeting her next-of-kin, 

Nephew and niece — 
Foolish old, prating old 

Cousin Lucrece. 

Once every year she had 

All she could eat, 
Turkey and cranberries, 

Pudding and sweet; 
Every Thanksgiving, 

Up to the great 
House of her kinsman was 

Driven in state. 


Vol. XXL— 18-19. 





Oh, what a sight to see, 

Rigged in her best ! 
Wearing the famous gown 

Drawn from her chest — 
Worn, ere King George's reign 

Here chanced to cease, 
Once by a forebear of 

Cousin Lucrece. 

Damask brocaded, 

Cut very low; 
Short sleeves and finger-mitts 

Fit for a show ; 
Palsied neck shaking her 

Rust-yellow curls, 
Rattling its roundabout 

String of mock pearls. 

Over her noddle, 

Draggled and stark, 
Two ostrich feathers — 

Brought from the ark ; 

Shoes of frayed satin, 

All heel and toe, 
On her poor crippled feet 

Hobbled below. 

My ! how the Justice's 

Sons and their wives 
Laughed ; while the little folk 

Ran for their lives, 
Asking if beldames 

Out of the past, 
Old fairy-godmothers, 

Always could last ? 

No ! One Thanksgiving, 

Bitterly cold, 
After they took her home 

(Ever so old), 
In her great chair she sank, 

There to find peace : 
Died in her ancient dress — 

Poor old Lucrece. 


By Edward S. Wilson. 

In the early spring of 1866, I was ordered 
by the Honorable Secretary of the Navy to go 
to Detroit, Michigan, and assume command of 
the United States revenue steamer " Dix," then 
preparing for a cruise on the upper lakes. My 
instructions were to proceed to the head waters 
of Lake Superior, and there await the arrival, 
from St. Paul, of General William T. Sherman, 
U. S. A., and his staft, and to place my com- 
mand under his direction while he was visiting 
the frontier fortifications. We left Detroit late 
in May, and the early part of June found us 
anchored in the beautiful Superior Bay, Min- 
nesota. At that time there were no railways 
nearer to this part of Lake Superior than St. 
Paul, and although several Indian agencies 
and post-traders were established, the region 

about was inhabited almost solely by Chip- 
pewa Indians, with a few Cherokees and 

On the day after our arrival, General Sher- 
man made his appearance, accompanied by his 
staff, and they were received with all honors. 

The General was one of the most delightful 
and entertaining men it has been my pleasure 
to meet — extremely kind and considerate of 
others, full of anecdote, and always interesting. 

We visited a number of the coast fortifica- 
tions in the region, and arrived finally at Grand 
Portage. Soon after coming to anchor here, we 
received a call from the Indian agent, who in- 
formed us that the Indians would like to have 
a talk with General Sherman, — of whom they 
had often heard, — that he might tell the "Great 

i8 93 .] 



Father at Washington " their wishes. The Gen- 
eral expressed his willingness to grant their re- 
quest, and the next morning was appointed for 
the interview. On reaching the shore, we 
were escorted by the agent to the place of 
meeting, where we found several old chiefs, a 
goodly number 
of young In- 
dians, and, as it 
seemed, all the 
squaws and pa- 
pooses in the 
country, assem- 
bled to greet us. 
The squaws 
and many of the 
old men were 
sitting around 
a camp - fire, 
with the princi- 
pal chief stand- 
ing in the mid- 
dle. Stepping 
forward, he 
shook hands 
with us, and 
then, through 
an interpreter, 
informed the 
General that he 
was a very good 
andpeaceful In- 
dian, and that 
his people also 
were very good 
but very poor, 
and wanted the 
" Great Father 
at Washington " 
to send them some blankets and pork. The 
General replied that as soon as he returned 
to Washington he would say a kind word for 
them. We took seats assigned us in the cir- 
cle, and were treated to cooked venison, after 
which the " pipe of peace " was handed round, 
each one taking a puff or two from its stem. 
Presently, from the rear of the camp, an old 
chief approached leading a young black bear. 
Walking up to General Sherman, he stated that 
his people wished to present the bear to him, 

and hoped the General would receive it. The 
General's kindly disposition would not permit 
him to decline the gift, so it was graciously 
accepted. But at the close of the ceremonies, 
and after the Indians had gone, came the im- 
portant question : What was to be done with 


Bruin? General Sherman frankly said he did 
not want him. 

The other officers declining the gift, the Gen- 
eral turned to me, and being very fond of ani- 
mals I promptly accepted the bear. I hoped 
to tame him, and really anticipated much plea- 
sure with my new-found friend. Little did I 
realize all that was in store for me ! We soon 
returned to the ship, Bruin was tumbled on 
board, the anchor catheaded, and we were once 
again at " sea." Bruin was known as " General 




mm '3 



Sherman's Bear," and allowed to roam about at 
his own sweet will. He was quiet for the first 
few days, and seemed to be taking in the situa- 
tion, and laying plans for the future. I was 
determined that, if possible, we should be the 
best of friends ; and as he was very fond of 
sugar, I concluded to cultivate his friendship 
by this means. In a short time Bruin discov- 
ered that I kept myself supplied with lumps of 
sugar, and he was constantly trying to get his 
head into my pocket. Often, when I was sit- 
ting in a camp-chair, he would walk up on his 
hind legs, and, placing his big black paws 
against me, beg for sugar or candy, and he 
was not at all pleased when he failed to get it. 
He soon made himself perfectly at home, and 
went about everywhere investigating the ship. 
The sailors taught him many tricks, and really 
made him more troublesome than he otherwise 
would have been. His great game with them 
was a sort of " tug-of-war." He would clutch 
one end of a rope with his paws and teeth, and 
a sailor the other, both pulling with all their 
might; and if Bruin happened to be the success- 
ful contestant, he would show his delight by 

putting his head between his legs and rolling 
about the decks like a ball. He found no diffi- 
culty in going up and down a common rung- 
ladder, but a pair of stairs was quite another 
matter. Usually, after going clown very care- 
fully for a step or two, he would become dis- 
couraged and tumble to the bottom with a 
growl. Bruin's scent was acute, and very soon 
he discovered that the sugar-bowl and molasses- 
pot were kept in the pantry at the foot of the 
steps. He also learned that the colored steward 
was very much afraid of him. Standing up- 
right on his hind legs, he would growl and 
rush into the pantry, and with a cuff of his paw 
drive out the steward, upset the sugar-bowl, and 
grabbing what he could of the contents, hurry 
on deck to escape the punishment which he 
knew would follow. 

It was now midsummer, and very warm. 
The doors and skylights were open. 

One afternoon I was entertaining a few 
friends in my cabin. Some simple refreshments 
(including a large bowl of sugar) were placed 
upon the table, and Bruin soon discovered 
this fact from the deck, through the sky- 




light. He growled once or twice, but I 
paid no attention, never dreaming he would 
attempt to get into the cabin by a short route. 
The " sweets," however, were more than he 
could resist, and before we realized what he 
was about, Bruin dropped through the open- 
ing, square upon the table, knocking over the 
glasses, cake-basket, and sugar-bowl ! There 
was a stampede among my friends ; they 
rushed to the rear of the cabin. The old 
steward, half frightened to death, made for the 
deck, while Bruin, with his mouth full of sugar, 
ran into my state-room. He was inclined to be 

" Cap'n, dat b'ar gwine ter kill somebody 
yet, fo' sho. I knows dem b'ars down south. 
Dey was very dange'ous, en dey kills lots ob 
folks. Best send dat b'ar off, Cap'n ! " 

But we had little fear the bear would do 
serious harm. One sultry night in July, when 
all hands except the watch on deck were 
quietly sleeping, one of the ward-room officers 
aroused his messmates by making the most 
unearthly sounds, groaning and crying for help. 
Suddenly he had waked to find an oppressive 
weight resting upon his chest. He called to 
his companions, and then reaching out he felt 


"bruin dropped through the skylight, square upon the table." 

a little ugly, but a few sharp raps from my cane the long, soft fur of Bruin. The bear had no 
were sufficient to drive him on deck. Being idea of being disturbed, and growled very de- 
assured that the danger was passed, the steward cidedly when driven out. I was sitting upon 
returned to restore things to rights, remarking the quarter-deck one morning, when Bruin 
as he did so : came up in his usual affectionate way, and pla- 



cing his paws on my lap, began pulling at my 
brass buttons. Fearing he would tear the coat, 
I raised my hand to push him back. Quick as 
a flash, he seized my hand and put his sharp 
teeth through the fleshy part of it between 
the thumb and finger — not a serious bite, but 
it angered me, and I laid hold of Bruin with 
one hand and a belaying-pin with the other, 
and before he could escape had dealt him 
two or three good blows. Shaking his head, 
he scampered aloft, where he remained the 
entire day. I called the steward to dress my 
wound, and when the old negro saw the in- 
jured hand, and learned it was the bear's doing, 
he gave expression to his views at once : 

" Did n't I tol' you so, Cap'n ? I jes' sho' dat 
b'ar he kill somebody yet. You best shoot 
him now, Marse Cap'n ; shoot him now .' I 
neber likes dem b'ars. After all yer gwine 
done fo' him, feedin' him sugar en 'lasses, en 
den he gwine ter bite yer like dis ! He had 
ought 'r be shame' ob heself." 

Poor Bruin was always getting into trouble. 
His inquisitive nature led him to investigate 
more than was good for himself or the sailors. 
Although they were very fond of the " black 
rascal," as the men called him when he aroused 
their anger, they were getting tired of the end- 
less trouble he gave them. They liked his 
pranks, and laughed heartily when he knocked 
one of them over in his efforts to make them 
play, or when he attacked the steward or cook 
on deck while they carried dishes. He capped 
the climax, however, one quiet afternoon, while 
prowling under the topgallant forecastle, by 
capsizing a pot of tar hanging from a beam 
overhead, and in tumbling over the buckets 
and coils of rope, he fell into a half-barrel of 
" slush." When discovered Bruin was a fear- 
ful sight. The sailors were convulsed with 
laughter, although they realized that an extra 
amount of labor was again in store for them. 
They attempted to capture him before the 
decks were covered with grease and tar; but 
the poor beast, frightened, no doubt, by the 
excitement which prevailed, rushed frantically 
about, dodging his opponents. He knocked 
over the cabin-boy, and capsized the old quar- 
termaster, and finally bethought himself of the 

rail. Before the men could hold him, Bruin was 
safely aloft, leaving the rigging and sail-covers 
in a terrible condition. The crew, now thor- 
oughly disgusted, determined to petition me to 
cage Bruin. I was reading in my cabin when 
all this took place, and knew nothing of the 
affair until the old steward, brimming with 
laughter, came down to tell me. 

" Cap'n, dat yere General Sherman's b'ar, 
he be'n playin' de mischief dar for'ard. He 
did n't kill nobody, but he pretty nigh kill' 
one ob de boys, en he jes' play de mischief 
dar for'ard. Cap'n, guess you done wid dat 

" Where is the bear now ?" I asked. 

" Oh, he 's up 'loft ! " 

I made up my mind not only to cage Bruin 
at once, but to send him ashore somewhere. I 
ordered the ship's carpenter to make a strong 
wooden box with iron rods for the front ; and 
Master Bruin was soon locked up, never more 
to frolic about decks. General Sherman and 
party had returned to Washington, so I could 
not consult them. 

Thinking the matter over, the idea sug- 
gested itself of writing to the commissioners of 
Central Park, New York, and inquiring if they 
would like the bear for the zoological garden. 
This I did, and a reply soon came thanking me 
for the offer and accepting the bear. We had 
returned to Detroit, so I saw the manager of 
the Wells Fargo Express Company, and he 
kindly agreed to forward the bear to New York 
free of charge. To console Bruin on the jour- 
ney, a large canvas bag, filled with sweetened 
corn-bread, was nailed to the cage, and on the 
outside of the bag I had painted in black let- 
ters : " Food for Bear. Please feed hourly ! " 

It was not without a feeling of regret that 
I thus parted with Bruin. Mischievous as he 
was, I knew I should miss his companionship 
and friendly morning salutation. 

A few days later I received another letter from 
the commissioners informing me of his safe ar- 
rival, and saying that he had been placed in the 
" Garden of the Bears." No doubt Bruin has 
been a source of amusement to many, both old 
and young; but few, I fancy, are aware that 
he once belonged to General Sherman. 

One Christmas Eve 
(so the List'ner heard), 
jbvAV'- of George the Third, 
l* ' Willoughby Hall, 
1 stiff and tall, 
. and his horses brown, 
from London Town : 
where a week before 

During the reign 

Over the road to 

Under the beeches, 

The Squire's coach, 

Bore their master 

From London Town, 

The coach had stopped at a palace door, 

And poor John Peter, in waistcoat fine, 

Had sat and gaped at Queen Caroline. 

Now, from the Court where people press, 
The Squire, his wife, and their daughter Bess, 
Weary, perchance, yet merry withal, 
Were on their way home to Willoughby Hall. 
The Squire was testy, and toss'd about, 
Grumbled because his pipe was out. 
My Lady's sleep was placid and sound, 
And visions came, as the wheels went round 
(Visions that stay'd when dreams were gone), 
Of a purple silk and a gay sprigged lawn. 


Bess, in her mantle of paduasoy, 

Hugg'd to her bosom a fine new toy — 

A slender whip with a silver head, 

To startle her pony, dappled " Ned." 

Now with each passing white mile-stone 

The little maiden had gayer grown, 

Till, in spite of the bitter freeze, 

She begged " to sit by the coachman, please ! " 

So with joy at her novel ride, 

Prattled and laughed at John Peter's side. 

Sudden, from out the trees near by 

Standing dark 'gainst the sunset sky, 

Six black figures on horseback sped 

Close on the coach. Ere a word was said, 

A pistol was cocked, and a voice cried, " Stop ! " 

(Poor John Peter was ready to drop, 

Cried out " Mercy ! " and made such a fuss 

They threatened him with a blunderbuss !) 

The Squire, he blustered; the Lady screamed — 

Something had happen'd that nobody dreamed : 

Nobody thought they should have to fight 

Six great robbers that very night, 

Even though, just the week before, 

Highwaymen halted a coach-and-four ! 

The Squire was gagged ere his sword was out, 

All the packets were tumbled about; 

The footman ran without staying to fight; 

Poor John Peter was stiff with fright ! 

The Lady fainted in dire distress. 

Nobody thought very much about Bess — 

She had not stirred, nor screamed, nor made 

Sign to show that she felt afraid ; 

But safe in her place, she bolder grew, 

For the wise little maid saw what to do. 

The robbers were careless, sure of success 
(Nobody counted on little Bess). 
She, who saw while the moments sped 
A robber move from the horse's head, 
Seized the whip, pushed the coachman back, 








Hit " Brown Jerry " a sounding thwack ! 
Up went his nose with a snort of scorn 
(This is how it was told next morn), 
Flung out his hoof (so the papers said), 
Hit a robber and broke his head ! 
Then was off with the speed of the wind, 
Leaving the robbers all behind ! — 
Off like mad o'er the snowy course, 
Ere a robber could mount his horse ! 

How My Lady hugged Bess and sobbed ! 
How John Peter told who was robbed! 
How the Squire, with pride and glee, 
Cried, "She did for 'em, trouncingly ! " 
How old Janet, the nurse, cried "Jack! 
What a marcy ye all came back ! " 
How maid Bess, at her father's side, 
Carved the pudding at Christmas-tide — 
The great big pudding with every plum 
Worthy of little Jack Horner's thumb ! 
How her grandam and cousins five 
Pledged her " the pluckiest girl alive." 
The longest words could not tell it all, 
The joy and the laughter at Willoughby Hall. 






{A story for translation.) 

Par Kate Watson Lawrence. 

" Mes petits sabots ! Mes petits sabots ! " 
s'ecria la petite Marie, battant ses mains. Sa 
more avait ouvert la porte de l'armoire, dans 
laquelle etaient, avec d'autres tresors, la robe de 
bapteme de Marie, et la premiere paire de sabots 
qu'elle n'avait jamais portee. C'etait un plaisir 
rare de voir ces effets, car la porte de cette armoire 
n'etait pas souvent ouverte. Marie pensait qu'il 
n'y avait rien de plus joli que cette petite robe de 
mousseline blanche, et les sabots, qui etaient le 
travail de son pere. Elle n'etait jamais fatiguee 
de les regarder, et de les admirer. 

Et ils etaient reellement bien jolis, car son pere 
etait un ouvrier tres habile; il avait pris un soin 
particulier en fabricant les premiers souliers de 
son premier enfant. lis etaient de bois de hetre, 
le meilleur bois pour sabots, parcequ'il est tres 
leger, tres ferme, et tient les pieds sees malgre 
la pluie et la neige. Ils etaient tres bien travailles, 
etant sculptes tout autour du bord, montrant les 
petits bas rouges et bleus, qui faisaient un joli 
contraste avec la couleur jaune du bois et un bou- 
ton de rose a demi-ouvert sur le cou de pied. 
"Nous allons au bois aujourd'hui," dit sa mere, 
"pour voir papa faire les sabots. II va faire une 
paire de sabots pour la petite Louise." " Pour la 
petite Louise!" s'ecria Marie. " Quoi ! la petite 
Louise ! Mais, elle ne peut pas encore se tenir 
debout ! " "Oh! elle marchera tres bien avant 
l'ete," dit la mere, "et alors les sabots seront tout 
prets pour les lui mettre aux pieds." Ouand elles 
arriverent au bois, le pere s'approcha d'elles, et 
les conduisit dans un endroit oil elles pouvaient 
contempler la scene du travail sans etre exposees 
au danger d'etre blessees par la chute des arbres. 

Deux hommes forts abattaient les arbres, d'autres 
les sciaient en longueur, et puis les divisaient en 
quartiers. Alors commenca le travail reel de 
sabots. Un homme tailla d'abord grossierement 
la forme des sabots avec une hache ; un autre 
ouvrier fit le trou pour le pied, en creusant avec un 
instrument pointu qu'on appelle cuiller. Alors on 
donna les sabots au pere de Marie pour les finir. 

II ne prenait pas autant de peine pour les autres 
que pour ceux de Marie. Les sabots d'hommes, qui 
etaient faits de la plus grosse partie de l'arbre ou le 
bois est rude, il les travaillait sans facon, ne faisant 
que les unir et les polir. Sur ceux des paysannes, il 
ciselait une rose ou une primevere. Les sabots du 
dimanche pour les jeunes filles, il les brodait en 
sculpture decoupee tout autour du bord. II y en 
avait aussi pour les petits bergers qui rodent avec 
leurs troupeaux, et encore d'autres plus petits pour 
les jeunes ecoliers, et d'autres encore moins grands 
pour les tout petits enfants. Ceux-ci Marie les ad- 
mirait beaucoup, quoiqu'ils ne fussent pas aussi 
polis que les siens. 

"Cette paire est pour Louise," dit son pere 
a Marie. " Quelle fleur faut-il que je taille 

Marie pensa un moment, et dit : 

" Un lis. Louise est comme un lis, elle est si 
blanche et si delicate." 

Son pere fut embarrasse pour un moment, et 
alors sculpta une fleur, et quoiqu'elle ne fut pas 
exactement comme un lis, Marie l'admira beau- 

Et ainsi les sabots furent finis, et enfermes 
jusqu'a ce que les petits pieds fussent assez grands 
pour les porter. 


Bessie with her kitten 

Sitting on her knee — 

Pussy, dear, now won't you 
Try to talk to me? 

Yes, you pretty darling, 
I am sure you could 

By Sydney Dayre. 

Say a little something 

If you only would. 
Now, I '11 ask a question, 

Answer, Pussy — do! 
Whom do you love the very best ? " 

And Pussy said: "M — you." 


By Helen Gray Cone. 

They started from the old farm-gate, 

The happiest boys alive, 
With Rob, the roan, and Rust, his mate, 

And Uncle Jack to drive ; 
The snow was packed, that Christmas-time, 

The moon was round and clear, 
And when the bells began to chime, 
They all began to cheer. 
Chime, chime, chime, chime, — such a merry load 
Sleighing in the moonlight along the river road ! 

They passed the lonely cider-mill, 

That 's falling all apart ; 
The hermit heard them on the hill, — 

It warmed his frozen heart ; 
They cheered at every farm-house gray, 

With window-panes aglow, — 
Within, the farmer's wife would say, 
" Well, well, I want to know ! " 
Chime, chime, chime, chime, — such a noisy load 
Speeding by the homesteads along the river road ! 

The river shone, an icy sheet, 

As o'er the bridge they flew ; 
Then down the quiet village street 

Their Christmas horns they blew ; 
The sober people smiled and said, 
" We '11 have to give them leave 
(Boys will be boys!) to make a noise, 
Because it 's Christmas Eve ! " 
Chime, chime, chime, chime, — such a lively load 
Scattering songs and laughter along the river road ! 

But now it 's growing hard to keep 

Awake, and now it seems 
The very bells have gone to sleep, 

And jingle in their dreams. 
The lane at last, — the farm-gate creaks, 

And Grandma cries, " It 's Jack ! 
Why, what a peck of apple-cheeks 

These boys have brought us back ! " 
Chime, chime, chime, chime, — such a hungry load, 
Rosy from the Christmas ride along the river road ! 



;■ J 


New Orleans. 

I have seen a great 
many large cities, but 
I cannot think I have 
ever seen one so green with 
trees or so full of song-birds 
and flowers. All summer the 
magnolia — magnolia grandiflora, great-flowered 
magnolia, a forest tree — opens its large white, 
delicate tulips of ravishing fragrance among its 
glossy sea-green leaves so high in air that only 
a stout-hearted boy can climb to and pick 
them. When its bursting seed-cones drop to 
the pavement and scatter their shining coral 
seeds, little girls with needle and thread string 
these seeds into necklaces whose perfume is 

even finer than that of the flowers. I do not 
say they always appreciate the sweet odors; 
some little girls have such small noses ! 

We must not stop to tell of half the flowers, 
nor more than mention the oleander, the pome- 
granate, the Cape jasmine, the yellow jasmine, 
the sweet olive, the night jasmine, whose un- 
seen incense fills the air on summer evenings 
when the stars seem only more white and still, 
not much farther away, than the fireflies, nor 
quite so numberless. We may not dwell even 
upon the orange-blossoms. Yet there is one of 
Flora's lesser gems which we must not leave 
untold : not the bride's, but the children's flower 
— the frail, sweet-scented little red, white, and 
yellow trumpets of the " four-o'clock." How 
many thousand garlands of these blossoms the 
little girls of New Orleans string in a single 
summer afternoon, I have not the statistics to 
tell. And then there is the china-tree, whose 
large bunches of tiny purple flowers, having 
exactly the odor of heliotrope, the girls can- 
not get unless the boys climb the trees, break 
off the sprays, and drop them down. Some 
boys — even some very respectable boys — prefer 



not to do this ! Later in the year they climb 
the same trees and fill their pockets with the 
green china-berries, which make the best wads 
you ever saw for popguns. These, fortunately, 
last but a short while, whereas there is no time 
of year in New Orleans when one may not 
gather roses and violets in the open air, and 
without having to be beholden to boys for 

Oh, yes, children have good reason to love 
New Orleans. Its climate, the doctors say, is 
kind to babies. It is true, one can never go 
sleighing there, and a day of good snowballing 
comes only about once in ten years; but then 
neither can one get his ears or toes frozen, ex- 
cept by going to one of the big ice-factories 
and paying to have it clone. 

The nature of the soil, too, has advantages 
and attractions. Almost everywhere except 
along the river-bank or in its bed, and often 
there as well, it is a tenacious dark-blue clay. 
In old times men used to build adobe houses of 
it, mixing Spanish moss through it as plasterers 
mix hair in their plaster. An excellent soft 
red brick is made of it in vast quantities in 
the often very picturesque brick-yards along the 
river. This soil, moreover, makes the best mud- 
pies I have ever seen ; while, rubbed on the 
clothes of an ordinarily bright boy, it can be 

made to procure 
him more old- 
fashioned family 
thrashings than 
any other mud I 
know of. 


This brings us naturally to the subject of 
fishing. The New Orleans boy rarely fishes in 
the Mississippi. " Pot-fishers " take its ugly buf- 
falo-fish, huge " blue-cats " and " mud-cats," 
with trot-lines, and " wharf-rats" have some luck 
with the hand-line at the edges of wharves; but 
as for fishing with the pole for small fry — I '11 
tell you : I once saw a boy — same boy again ? 
yes! — tie a railroad spike to forty feet of small 
line and cast the iron into the river from the 
stern of a steamboat lying at a wharf for re- 
pairs. That swirling, boiling current floated 
the spike! Imagine dropping into those waters 
without a line and with one's clothes and shoes 
on ! But that is what a great many persons, 
some dear little children among them, had to 
do one winter morning, — I think it was a New 
Year's day, — when five of those great steam- 
boats burned to the water's edge in a few min- 
utes, like so much straw or shavings. Some 
were saved by men in skiffs, while others were 
never seen again. I know a man who, when a 
youth, saw that whole river-harbor one day 
dotted with drifting steamboats and ships, 
burning and sinking ; but that was — as the 
old black women who sell pies and " stage- 
planks " (gingerbread) on the landings would 
say — "in de enju'in' o' de waugh." 

No, the right sort of New Orleans boy, the 
sort that reads St. Nicholas (or would if he 
were not a Creole), fishes in Lake Pontchartrain 
when he can afford it, — the lake is five or six 
miles from the city's main streets, — and some- 
times catches that handsome and delicious pan- 
fish, the croaker, and even, though more rarely, 
the sheepshead. They are so named because 
the croaker makes a little croaking noise as he 
flounces about in your fishing-boat, 
and the sheepshead has a face whose 
profile is like that of a sheep's, and 
some true teeth that show with his 
mouth shut. The lake is thirty miles 
wide and over forty long, so that as 
one looks across it he sees only 
sky and water meet and vessels 
sink below or rise above the blue 
horizon. Away back in the geo- 
logical ages, before anybody's aunt 
was born, the Mississippi River 
used to run through this lake. 




But New Orleans boys have other fishing-grounds. With 
one's father or uncle along, Harvey's Canal, the Com- 
pany Canal, Lake Cataouache, are good, better, best ! 
On a pinch, there are plentyof fun and quite enough 
fish still nearer by ; for in all the suburban regions, 

where the live- 
oaks spread their 

u <& 

brawny, moss- 
draped arms, where 
the persimmon 

drops its yellow 
fruit, and the wild 
acacia spreads its 
thorny, blossom- 
crowded sprays 




and fills 

the air with 

their odor, the 
plain is crisscrossed with 
draining-ditches of all sizes, most of them un- 
tainted by sewage ; and in their sometimes 
clear, sometimes turbid waters are the sun- 
perch, the warmouth, and other good fish. 
Even for girls — who, somehow, can't learn to 
fish, poor things! — there is in these harmless 
waters the loveliest crawfishing. 

I once knew a boy — y es ; same ! — to catch 

five pretty sun-perch in one of these big ditches, 
pack them alive in some fresh Spanish moss 
well wetted, put them into a covered tin bucket, 
carry them three miles in the hot summer 
weather, turn them into a tiny pond at his 
home, and keep them there — I forget how long, 
but for more than a year. They subsisted upon, 
and gradually exterminated, a minute species 
of shell-fish which he had earlier introduced, 






and which from two or three specimens had 
increased to thousands. One pretty fact about 
the sun-perch is that he marries. Yes, these 
fish mate in pairs as birds do. They even 
have a simple sort of sandy nest. One of the 
pleasantest things I ever observed in all my 
boyhood was one of the beautiful little creatures 
hovering over the bright depressed spot in the 
clean sand at the bottom of some cool, shallow 
water, which was its nest, fanning it with its 
gauzy fins, whirling, backing, darting, and 
guarding it against all enemies. 

But that really has nothing to do with New 
Orleans, except that our wandering into it thus 
only tends to show, I think, how very near to 
dear Mother Nature New Orleans is, for a city : 
especially the children's part of it. I was near 
forgetting to say that there are also snakes in 
those ditches: one must be candid. But they 
are — what shall we say? — diffident and retir- 
ing. Even when one of them pokes his tongue 
out at you, that only means, " Hello, sonny, I 
used to know your grandma ! " If, when you 
are fishing, you jerk up your line, thinking you 
have got a fish, and you find it 's nothing but 
a mere four-foot snake, all you have to do is to 
drop everything and walk away rapidly. Still 
it is well to notice where you step. Snakes, too, 
go in pairs, and you don't want to tread on one 
snake while walking away from another. The 
Voodoos consider it a sign of bad luck. Under- 
stand me, a Louisiana boy never runs from a 
snake. I once knew a boy — ? — yes! — who 
made it a rule never to part company with a 
snake till he had killed it. Once, near the New 
Shell road, seeing a large snake, and keeping 
his eyes on him sharply while he stooped to 
take up a stick, he grasped, instead, another 
snake ! Both these snakes got away, and the 
same may be said of the boy. Some of the 
hardier lads of my acquaintance used to have 
a neat trick of catching a live snake by the tail, 
twirling him around as one would twirl a sling, 
and popping his head off as we pop a whip. 
The fact of the snake being venomous did not 
deter the boy or save the serpent. But this 
sport, while injurious to the snake, is not morally 
helpful to the boy, and I do not recommend it. 

I could name many other amusements, com- 
mon in New Orleans, of which boys in Northern 
Vol. XXI.— 20. 

towns seem to know but little. Out of that city, 
for instance, I have never seen the blow-gun. 
These are sold by Choctaw Indians, mostly at 
the market-houses. The butchers, hucksters, 
fruiterers, and bakers of New Orleans, you 
must understand, are almost all gathered into 
market-houses distributed at convenient — some- 
times not too convenient — points throughout 
the city; and people with market-baskets on 
their arms throng the gas-lighted aisles of these 
long depots of supply at very early morning 
hours. Any early-rising New Orleans boy or 
girl will promise to be good if father or mother 
will take him or her along when going to mar- 
ket before breakfast. There is always a delight- 
ful uproar in these places in the hour of dawn ; 
a bewildering chatter of all the world talking at 
once, mostly in German and French : a calling 
and hallooing, a pounding of cleavers, a smell 
of raw meat, of parsley and potatoes, of fish, 
onions, pineapples, garlics, oranges, shrimps, and 
crabs, of hot loaves, coffee, milk, sausages, and 
curds, a rattling of tins, a whetting of knives, a 
sawing of bones, a whistling of opera airs, a 
singing of the folk-songs of Gascony and Italia, 
a flutter of fowls, prattling and guffawing of ne- 
groes, mules braying, carts rumbling — it is great 
fun ! Most of these market-houses have some 
part of their flagged floor left without roof; and 
here, in pathetic contrast with all this hurry and 
noise, one may almost always find, squatted 
on the flags among the baskets of their own 
deft weaving, a few Indian women and children, 
gentle, silent, grave, bareheaded, barefooted, 
and redolent of the bay-leaves, sassafras root, 
and medicinal herbs they pile before them for 
sale. If there are men with them, they are likely 
to offer for your purchase blow-guns. A blow- 
gun is six feet of brake-cane, the joints burned 
out smooth with the red-hot end of a rod of 
iron wire. Its foot-long arrow is very slender, 
headless, and feathered with cotton lint, and is 
blown through the gun by the breath. They 
say Audubon, the great naturalist, who was a 
Creole, used to get some of his smallest birds 
by means of a blow-gun. I am not sure I get 
that sentence logically correct : I suppose the 
birds were not his till he had got them; but any 
enterprising boy will see what I mean. I am 
told that of late years the popularity of the 



blow-gun has been largely transferred to that 
fiendish thing made of a forked stick and a rub- 
ber strap, so terrifying to grandmothers and so 
justly denounced by big sisters, and known in 
New Orleans by the ribald name of nigger- 
shooter. I hope I have been misinformed. 

The brake-cane furnishes another plaything. 
If all the rain that falls in New Orleans within 
a year were to fall in one big shower and not 
run off as it fell, it would cover the whole 
ground to the depth of more than five feet. 
Even as it is, the rains come down so quickly 
and run off so slowly that one may often see 
many of the granite-paved streets in the heart 
of the city overflowed by an hour's rain, so that 
the sidewalks — still known there by the old 
French military name of banquettes — will be 
several inches under water. You may wonder 
how, in such cases, the floods are prevented 
from overflowing cellars; but this is done by 
the following simple device: They don't have 
any cellars. Neither are there any underground 
sewers in the city for carrying off this rain- 
water. It runs off — always from the river- 
bank and toward the swamp — by open gut- 
ters, one at every sidewalk's outer edge. And 
so there is almost always some water in sight, 
clean or unclean, in whatever street one may 
be. Now, with a simple thick joint-length of 
brake-cane for a cylinder, open at one end and 
the joint at the other end pierced by a small 
vent-hole, and with a stick for a plunger, a soft 
rag neatly wrapped around one end to give 
suction, you have a syringe, or " squirt," that 
will throw a stream of water upon a cat or dog, 
or a playmate's trousers, as much as forty feet 
away. A singular thing about this home-made 
toy is that its owner (or borrower) always thinks 
he can sit on the street curbstone and squirt it 
with frantic enthusiasm for an hour without 
getting his own clothes wet, though he always 
gets them so. But the climate is mild, the 
clothes do not cost him anything, and so he 
tries, tries again, remembering, as all good boys 
should, that perseverans omnia vinces ! 

Throwing the lasso used to be a favorite 
sport in New Orleans, those who were without 
lassos taking the part of wild cattle, to add to 
the fun. Boys sometimes acquired great skill 
in the use of the lariat. 

" Noyaus " is a game whose charms ought 
to be known beyond New Orleans. Noyaus, 
you understand, are peach-stones: fully half 
the terms of the playground, in New Orleans, 
are French. Noyaus is played by standing at 
a taw and trying to toss the peach-stones into 
a hole in the ground close against some fence 
or wall. The game is interestingly intricate. 
The noyaus that fall outside the hole must be 
flipped in with thumb and forefinger. 

The boys of New Orleans are great trappers 
of song-birds. During several months of the 
long summery year they take thousands of or- 
chard-orioles, cardinals, indigo-birds, and non- 
pareils in trap-cages. 

This trapping of birds is cruel play and very 
one-sided, for a large proportion of the poor 
little prisoners die. If fellows must get their 
sport out of things that fly, why don't they find 
it in things that need their help to fly, as birds 
certainly do not ? 

There, for instance, are kites. But the lads 
of New Orleans can truly reply that this beau- 
tiful and harmless pastime is nowhere else in all 
our country so widely resorted to as in their 
city. I have seen more kites in the air on one 
day in New Orleans than in seven years any- 
where else. 

A far finer phase of the sport is the flying of 
kites of great size. And still another is the fly- 
ing of lantern-kites by night. When it is real 
kite-time one may often see half a dozen of these 
phantom lanterns moving about in the soft 
summer air, and the kite, thread, and tail are 
entirely invisible. 

This is all I have room to say about New 
Orleans. If you have any doubts as to the ac- 
curacy of anything I have stated, I trust you 
will go and see for yourself. Then my very 
mistakes will have had their value ; for if you 
have but the art of seeing and telling what you 
have seen, your own account of things will 
be more interesting to you than I can reason- 
ably hope this is. A romantic light from the 
crescents of the Delta City shall linger in the 
firmament of your memory long after the 
suns of your childhood and youth have set, 
as, gently resting under the twinkling sky of 
aged years, you count the shooting-stars of 
happy reminiscence. 


(A story founded on fact.) 

By John J. a Becket. 

Probably you never heard of Sarah Jane 
Collins. It would be surprising if you had. 
But I really feel that for the encouragement of 
small, unknown women, the world should hear 
of Sarah Jane, and of the way in which she con- 
quered Santa Claus. 

Sarah Jane Collins, at the time of this memo- 
rable achievement, was toppling to her ninth 
year. She was not heavily burdened with 
knowledge — not even when compared with 
other little nine-year-old girls. But she had 
learned one thing which stuck to her small mind 
like a bur. This was that Christmas is a time 
when Santa Claus simply rampages around 
shedding gifts upon children. 

For some unaccountable reason, he had 
never shed any of his bounty on Sarah Jane. 

She had expected, witnessed, and survived 
several Christmas days, not only without a sin- 
gle present, but without so much as a single 
card or note of regret from Santa Claus to atone 
for this absolute neglect. This might have 
shaken the faith of some small girls in the old 
Saint's being as generous as he is said to be. 
But it had not that effect on Sarah Jane. 

However, she felt there was something wrong 
somewhere — or why did she not get Christmas 
presents? If he supposed that she did not care 
about them — why, then the Saint was sadly 
mistaken. Sarah Jane's soul was filled with a 
desire for Christmas presents. 

This little girl lived in Barrytown with her 
mother and her brother John, who was eleven 
years old, but several years younger for his age 
than Sarah was. The chief industrial activity 
in Barrytown is coal-mining. John had an in- 
terest in a coal-mine. He was a " picker." As 
the coal comes streaming down the chute in the 
breaker the pickers snatch out the slate, as peo- 
ple do not like to buy coal and find large in- 
combustible chunks of slate mingled with it. 

When John came home from picking, a stranger 
could not have told him from a black boy. He 
was, in fact, a very black boy ; but I mean that 
any one would have imagined that he was a 
child of African descent. But you could n't 
expect John to sit handling lumps of coal all 
day in a place where the air is thick with flying 
coal-dust, and come out looking like a white 

The Collins family lived on the outskirts of 
the town, and beyond them were the coal- 
breakers, and heaps of " culm," and hills. In 
fact, the Collins mansion was on the crest of a 
hill. It was a wooden house two stories high ; 
but it had a spare room, and that was rented to 
a Mr. Sullivan, who worked in the mine, of 
course, and who paid one dollar a week for his 

Well, it was getting on toward Christmas. 
The river was frozen over, the culm heaps wore 
white robes of snow, and the streets afforded 
splendid coasting. Sarah Jane, sliding wildly 
down the hill in a warm glow of delight, was 
really a much worthier subject for a sonnet than 
many that poets select. But in her small per- 
son lurked this memory of past Christmases, 
barren of gifts, and the remembrance was like 
a skeleton at the feast. When she and John 
made excursions through the business streets 
of the town, the shop-windows, stored with 
the things from which Santa Claus replenished 
his sleigh, brought home to Sarah still more 
strongly the past unfitness of things. 

Although there was no selfishness or vanity 
in her nature, she never for a moment saw any 
reason why she should n't have presents. It 
was simply an oversight on Santa Claus's part. 
They lived so far out on the skirt of the town 
that the good Saint might be unaware that 
Sarah Jane Collins had waited there through 
several Christmas days — forgotten. It was 




only his unfortunate ignorance of her where- 
abouts that had led to her passing such fruit- 
less Christmas days; that was all. 

But Sarah Jane, with a most logical appreci- 
ation of the situation, argued that his ignorance 
had been quite enough to cause her to be over- 
looked in the past, and would doubtless prove 
sufficient this Christmas, unless she could bring 
herself to the good Saint's notice. So, about 
four days in advance of the eventful day, she 
presented herself before her mother and showed 
that worthy woman a small note. 

" Mother," said Sarah Jane, " here 's a letter 
which I 've written to Santa Claus. But I 
don't know how to get it to him." 

" Sarah Jane ! why have you written to 
Santa Claus ? " exclaimed poor Mrs. Collins. 

" So that he '11 know where I am and bring 
me my presents," said Sarah Jane, with the 
greatest gravity. 

" Shall I read what you 've written to him ? " 
asked her mother, with a troubled look. 

" Yes." 

Sarah Jane handed the sheet of white note- 
paper to her mother, who read, in large, labo- 
riously formed letters, this communication of 
her daughter to Santa Claus: 

December 21 92. 
deer Santa Claus : I now take the plesure of rit- 
ing to you to ask you if you would please remember me 
on Chrismas eve and my little brother becawse we are 
very poor and I have no papa to send any dollars but I 
will try and pay you bak when I grow a big woman and 
I am satsfyed with anything that you wish to bring me 
Deer Santa Claus. I have seen your stores and I think 
you have lots of pretty things in them and I would like 
to get something. We hold our Christmas on monday 
Deer Santa Claus because we have Sunday Scool on 
Chrismas day and our teacher says we must keep Sunday 
so we don't have no scool for a whole week and so my 
mama says we can say our Chrismas day is on monday. 
Deer Santa Claus, Please remember the right howse, it 
is the howse nearest going up to the scool and ours is 
the only chimly on the whole block for my brother was 
out looking. This is the address, Deer Santa Claus. 
Sarah Jane Collins 
401 Blank Street. 

Mrs. Collins held the letter in her hand 
and looked at her small daughter. The letter 
was addressed simply to " Mr. Santa Claus." 

"Will I just drop it in the letter-box?" 
asked Sarah Jane, eagerly. 

" I will attend to that for you, Sarah," said 
her mother. Mrs. Collins was somewhat dis- 
tressed; but she had in her mind's eye some 
very kind people who, she thought, would 
know Santa Claus's address if she showed this 
letter to them. 

So Sarah Jane intrusted the precious missive 
to the care of her mother. That good wo- 
man soon after put on her best shawl and 
bonnet, and went to a house where lived two 
young women whom she knew. They had 
very pretty faces and, what is better, very kind 
hearts. Mrs. Collins gave them the letter. 
They were much affected at Sarah Jane's di- 
rect appeal to Santa Claus, and when Mrs. 
Collins started on her way back it was with 
the comforting thought that Sarah Jane would 
not be left out this year. 

She reported to the eager young correspon- 
dent that the letter had been sent on its way. 

Then life took on new and rosy meanings 
for Sarah, and she almost counted the hours. 
Sarah frequently asked her mother if she 
thought Santa Claus could possibly miss the 
house. It would be trying if Sarah Jane's let- 
ter were to bring the old gentleman around 
their way, only to unload the gifts intended for 
her at a neighbor's house ! 

One day, as Mr. Sullivan was going to his 
room to remove the coal-dust which he had 
brought back with him from the mine, Sarah 
approached him in the small passageway and 

" Mr. Sullivan, will you please clean out the 
chimney so when Santa Claus comes he can 
get down easily ? I will mend and brush your 
clothes for a week if you will." 

And Mr. Sullivan, who had a very large 
heart though he lived in such a small way, 
grinned and said, " Shure, I '11 make it so clean 
that the ould Saint would just love to slide down 
it ! " And if he did not clean the chimney 
with quite such scrupulous care as he might, 
it was because he knew Santa Claus was not a 
man to be balked in his gift-bearing course by 
a little soot in the chimney. Sarah religiously 
fulfilled her part of the contract, mending and 
brushing Mr. Sullivan's clothes every day with 
heroic fidelity. 

Johnny Collins also was infected with the 

i8 93 .] 



feverish delight with which Sarah Jane looked 
forward to the great day. She told her brother 
she had informed Santa Claus that they both 
wanted gifts. When Mrs. Collins saw her 
daughter casting glances at the clean chimney, 
she well knew what picture was in Sarah's 

On the evening of Sunday, Sarah went to 
her bed at her wonted hour for retiring, and 
tried to compose herself to sleep as quickly as 

/V/VX4/ /->/ 

But she noticed that there was something 
on the headboard, and she stepped softly to 
the side of the bed to see what it was. 

There, carefully pinned above the sleeping 
child, was a big sheet of light wrapping-paper, on 
which Sarah had neatly printed in large letters : 



usual. She feared that if Santa Claus were to 
come and find her awake he would take flight 
at once. Sarah Jane was convinced that the 
good old Saint could n't make a present while 
anybody looked on, because his generosity was 
of so modest a kind. 

It was not easy to fall asleep, but at last 
Sarah was in the Land of Nod. When Mrs. 
Collins passed through the room, she saw the 
small girl with her hands folded outside the 
coverlet, and her eyes closed in slumber. 

She could hardly re- 
frain from a laugh at 
the picture of her art- 
less little girl sleeping 
so soundly with this 
label affixed above her, 
as if she were an ex- 
hibit in some fair. The 
bright notion of Sarah 
was clearly apparent : 
Santa Claus should 
have no excuse for neg- 
lecting her this Christ- 
mas. She had not left 
him a loophole for es- 
cape. Those words 
told him clearly and 
unmistakably that " this 
was Sarah Jane Col- 
lins." After her letter 
to him, this identifica- 
tion was the only thing 

Sarah awoke at a 
very early hour, and 
sitting up in her bed, 
listened to hear if there 
was a sound of fairy- 
like sleigh-bells, or if 
there was a sliding noise in the chimney. She 
heard nothing. A glance at the bed showed her 
that it was not strewn with presents. She put 
back her hand to feel if the paper which she had 
prepared for the perfect enlightenment of Santa 
Claus was in its place ; and then, thinking that 
she must give him every opportunity, she put 
her head back upon the pillow, and with great 
determination went to sleep again, and dreamed 
she was in a room full of presents, and that 
they were all for her and Johnny. 



She got up at seven o'clock, and went all 
through the small house. There were no 
marks of Santa Claus. She scanned the 
opening of the chimney to see whether there 
were any indications of his having tried to get 
down there ; but there was nothing anywhere 
to show that he had come near the house. 

Her small countenance was very rueful, and 
after breakfast she and Johnny held a consulta- 
tion. Could Santa Claus have gone astray ? 
Or had he not received her letter? Sarah Jane 
felt like sitting down and having a good cry, if 
it was Christmas day. There were tears in her 
voice when she sought Mrs. Collins to see 
whether her mother could offer any reason- 
able excuse for this sad delay on Santa Claus's 

" Why, my dear," said Mrs. Collins, cheer- 
fully, " you told him that you had Monday as 
your Christmas day. This is only nine o'olock, 
Monday morning, and so there is a great deal 
of time left for him to come in. But you and 
Johnny can go to the Sunday-school concert 
this afternoon — and don't fret ; I feel sure that 
he will come." 

Mrs. Collins, in fact, knew from the kind 
young ladies who were so well acquainted with 
Santa Claus that he would surely come that af- 
ternoon. If there had been any doubt of it, she 
would not have spoken so confidently to Sarah 
Jane. As it was, the little girl and Johnny 
went to the concert and enjoyed it very much. 

They ran quickly home, however, and Sarah 
was in a tumult of agitated hopes when she 
burst into the house. And the front- room door 
was just a little ajar, as if some visitor had not 
quite closed it after him. Sarah Jane pushed 
the door wide open, and flew into the room 
with a cry of delight. 

There in the corner stood the most beautiful 
little Christmas tree ! 

The wax tapers on it were shining like stars, 
and festoons of white pop-corn were wreathed 
from bough to bough, as if the tree had traveled 

through a snow-storm. Then the presents ! — 
there were things in bright-colored paper tied 
with pretty ribbons in a way so dainty and co- 
quettish that it was surprising an old man like 
Santa Claus could have done it. 

Oh, how full and beautiful that Christmas 
tree looked to Sarah Jane, who danced with 
delight before it, her eyes shining, and her 
whole face one broad, happy smile ! Then, al- 
though it was hard to leave the lively spectacle 
even for a moment, she ran up to her mother, 
who was seated quietly in the other room, and 
shouted : 

" Oh, Mama, he 's been here. Did n't you 
hear him ? Come in and see the tree ! " 

She grasped her mother's hand and hurried 
her into the next room. And after they had 
looked at the brilliant tree, and enjoyed it 
thoroughly, Sarah Jane had to go and get 
Mr. Sullivan, that he, too, might enjoy the 
beautiful sight. 

" It 's mine," said Sarah Jane to him, rather 
grandly, standing as tall as she could — "mine 
and Johnny's. I wrote Santa Claus a letter 
for it." 

" Shure he 's a foine, daycent ould man ! " 
said Mr. Sullivan, with great consideration. 

" But he did n't come down the chimney," 
said Sarah Jane, animatedly. " Don't you see 
that tree is too big for the chimney ? " 

" And afther my cl'aning it so foine, and you 
a-mendin' me clothes fur a whole week ! " cried 
Mr. Sullivan. 

" Oh, that 's all right ! " returned Sarah Jane, 

" He came in at the door with it," said 
Johnny. " The boys at the mine told me he 
could open any door he wanted to." 

But no matter how he came — he had come. 
And there was the proof of it — that gay, lumi- 
nous tree. And the presents were so exactly 
what Sarah wanted that she exclaimed to her 
mother, "He must have known me. But was n't 
it lucky I sent him that letter ? " 


By Bliss Carman. 

Now Lanty McClusky had married a wife, 
For the ease of care and the joy of life, 

And bought him a bit of a farm also, 
With hillocks aslope and hedges arow, 

So the good folk now may dance no more ; 
But Lanty must settle the piper's score. 

For it 's only a craven who can sin 
Against his manikin kith and kin. 

"sudden a noise was heard outdoors.' 

But never the shade of a house thereon; 
So Lanty, of course, must build him one. 

And of all the sites he needs must -choose 
The beautiful rath the fairies use 

When they dance together beneath the moon 
To the mad light lilt of the crooked shoon. 

In spite of warning, in face of fear, 

He set his hearthstone and rooftree there, 

For Lanty he was a headstrong man, 
And always ended what he began. 

The house is finished, the bride brought home, 
And fiddler and friends to the warming come. 

The music was fine, the folk were free 
With the restless foot and the lifted knee; 

And if there were sorrows, they must drown, 
While the dance went merrily up and down. 

When sudden a noise was heard outdoors — 
A cracking of timbers, a heaving of floors, 

A splitting of rafters, a wrenching of beams, 
And above it a sound like the sound in dreams, 



When it 's only wind out under the eaves, " It 's up on the morrow before the day 
In a midnight dance with the vagrant leaves. I '11 be, removing my house away : 

But Lanty had heard the riving boards, 
And he knew the fairies were out in hordes. 

The music stopped, the dance stood still, 
And the listeners heard a piping shrill 

And tiny voice commanding plain, 
" Come, good folk, work with might and main. 

"The gentry have suffered a grievous thing; 
A thief has ruined our dancing-ring : 

; And I'll thank you kindly, and keep my word." 
With that such a clapping of hands was heard! 

And a " Bravo, Lanty ! Build between 
The two white-thorns above the boreen." 

Then a shuffling sound of tiny feet, 

Like dust when the wind goes up the street, 

With another cheer of right good will, 
And the little gentry were gone from the hill. 


" For Lanty has stolen our ancient right, 
And his house must fall before midnight." 

But Lanty is out at the doorway then: 
" I ask your pardon, gentlemen, 

" For building on any place you own ; 
But if to-night you '11 let me alone, 

As Lanty had promised, so he did; 
And digging the cellar where they bid, 

Between the two white-thorn trees old, 
What should he find but a pot of gold ! 

For it 's only an honest man can win 
The heart of his manikin kith and kin. 


By Mrs. C. V. Jamison. 

Author of "Lady Jane." 

[Begun in the May number.} 

Chapter XXII. 


March came and went, and Mr. Ainsworth 
did not go south. After hearing from Pere 
Martin that Pere Josef had not returned, and 
was, as far as he could learn, in the interior of 
New Mexico, the artist felt that there was no 
hurry, as a letter might not reach the priest for 
months. So he lingered in his pleasant studio 
until April grew old, and verdant young May 
took her place. 

Philip was bitterly disappointed, although he 
made no complaint ; however, it was more 
bearable because Pere Josef was not there, and 
Dea did not need him. His mind was relieved 
of its anxieties, and he could wait more pa- 
tiently. Besides, life to him was pleasanter than 
it had been : Madam Ainsworth was less severe 
since the confession, and at times almost kind, 
and Lucille was less disdainful to him. Still 
their relations were not at all cordial. 

On the day when the little, heiress caused such 
a commotion by fainting at the sight of a wool 
mouse, Philip understood that she was not a. doll, 
but that she was a frail little girl made of the 
most delicate and fragile clay, and as fine and 
transparent as a soap-bubble that a breath of 
wind could blow away. That rather absurd little 
scene had taught him several important things. 
First, that a little heiress may be more refined 
and sensitive than is a child of poverty, and 
that what are precious treasures to the humble 
are very offensive to the " 'igher classes " (quot- 
ing from Bassett) ; that a little waif must never 
try " to get even " with a little aristocrat unless 
he wants to experience serious defeat ; that there 
are the proud and the meek, and that the proud 
instead of the meek inherit the earth ; that the 
kingdom of the meek is not of this world ; that 
Vol. XXI. — 21. 1 

a life of simple, honest poverty is very different 
from a life of wealth and fashion ; and that 
among the worldly, things are not called by the 
same names, nor judged by the same standards, 
as they are among the children of nature. 

All these contradictions in life became slowly 
apparent to the intelligent mind of the boy. 
He had never thought of such things with 
Toinette and Pere Josef, but now living seemed 
a very different and much more complicated 
condition than it had then. Philip was a child 
of nature, but he was also something of a little 
philosopher : he could not see either necessity 
or reason in some of the ceremonious usages 
around him. These amused him and made 
him sad at the same time : such as Bassett 
holding open the door and bowing so humbly 
when Madam Ainsworth entered; or the chang- 
ing the plates a dozen times at dinner ; or the 
taking off one handsome suit of clothes to put 
on another just to dine in. He could not un- 
derstand why his fine slippers were not just as 
good to wear in the drawing-room as were his 
patent-leather shoes, nor why every one stood 
up until Madam Ainsworth was seated, nor the 
reason for various other formalities which Mrs. 
Ainsworth told him indicated good breeding. 

He believed in being polite to every one, 
even to the servants ; in being strictly truthful, 
obedient, and generous — Toinette had taught 
him all those things ; in emptying his pockets 
for a beggar where Lucille would refuse a 
dime; in taking the part of an oppressed small 
boy, or a hungry, weak dog ; in feeding any 
starving cat in the neighborhood, and strewing 
the window-sills with crumbs for the freezing 
sparrows; in taking off his hat when he spoke 
to a woman; in offering his seat promptly to 
any one who stood in a public conveyance ; in 
carrying a baby or a basket for a weary mother, 
or in doing any kindness prompted by a noble, 
sweet nature. 




But it was not always right, in this fashion- 
able world, to follow the promptings of his own 
heart. At almost every turn he was reproved 
and repressed for what appeared to him a 
trivial thing ; and this moral pruning and train- 

his call, to fly down to him and hover about 
him fearlessly. 

Often on sunny afternoons in June, when 
Madam Ainsworth and Lucille were driving 
through the shady avenues of the park, they 

had set him to thinking seriously. He would see Philip lying at full length under a 


rebelled secretly against this hothouse culture. 
Like the vines in his old sunny garden, he 
wanted to climb to heaven free and untram- 
meled. He grew pale and thoughtful, and 
began to look old for his age ; he was not 
developing well under the influence of this 

When the trees budded in Ma)-, and the 
grass grew green in the park, he brightened 
visibly. Every spare moment was spent there; 

tree, his hat thrown aside, his hair tangled, his 
face flushed and happy, unmindful of the throng 
of human beings who might pause to gaze at 
him as he watched his feathered friends flutter 
and circle about him. 

" I think the boy must have gipsy blood in 
him : just see how uncivilized he looks! " Madam 
Ainsworth would exclaim indignantly. 

" I hope he won't see us and recognize us 
before all these people," Lucille would say, as 
he liked to get away by himself, and brood in she turned her haughty little head in another 
the green shadows. He thought much of his direction, and shrugged her shoulders disdain- 

There was no danger of his recognizing 
them. Philip saw nothing but his blue sky, 
his birds, and his green trees; and perhaps his 
thoughts were hundreds of miles away. Again 

past, and he lived over and over the old days 
that now seemed farther away than ever. His 
disappointment was deeper than any one 
guessed. He had trusted implicitly in Mr. 
Ainsworth 's promise to take him home in 
March, and the easy way 
in which it was evaded 
shook his confidence for 
the first time. 

" How do I know," he 
thought, " that they will 
ever take me back ? Per- 
haps I shall never see 
Dea again, or Pere Josef, 
and the poor ' children ' 
may have to stay here al- 

But after a while his 
disappointment wore off; 
the beauties of the park 
consoled him — the cool, 
shady spots, the sunny 
slopes; and the birds — 
yes, these strange birds 
came to him ; he had not 
lost his power of wooing 
these children of the air. 
They were unknown to him by name, and they he was Toinette's Philip, setting out pansies 
were, he found, neither so rich of plumage nor in the old garden, while the Major and the 
so sweet of song as his Southern friends, but he Singer fluttered around him ; or he was kneel- 
loved them and welcomed them. Already they ing in the little chapel near the shrine of St. 
knew his peculiar whistle, and would come at Roch, with Dea beside him, in the sweet rosy 



i8 93 .] 


light, while she softly whispered her simple 

Sometimes he would hide his face in the 
grass and shed a few silent tears because those 
dear places were so far away that there was 
nothing left him but the memory of them. 

Early in July, Mrs. Van Norcom returned 
from abroad, and took the little heiress and 
her attendants away with her to Newport. 
Shortly after, Madam Ainsworth followed, and 
Mr. and Mrs. Ainsworth and Philip were left 
alone in the great, silent house. Mr. and Mrs. 
Ainsworth did not intend to neglect their 
adopted son, but Mrs. Ainsworth was not well 
and was confined most of the time to her room, 
and Mr. Ainsworth spent his leisure hours 
in his wife's company, for her indisposition 
forced them to remain in the city. And this 
was another disappointment to Philip, who had 
hoped again to see the forests and mountains 
where he had passed the previous summer. 

However, he had the "children," the park, his 
drawing, and his books, although he was not 
as fond of the latter as he should have been. 
The tutor whom he had during the winter said 
his pupil was very intelligent and obedient, but 
that he did not like to study, and that he did 
not like Latin and mathematics. The tutor 
feared Philip would always be deficient in those 
useful branches of learning. 

Nature was Philip's favorite book, and art 
and poetry the mental food he preferred ; dry 
and abstruse studies wearied and disheartened 
him, and he was glad when his tutor went 
away for the summer, and left him free to 
spend his days as he pleased. 

Sometimes he would smuggle the "children" 
out for a holiday, and the genuine pleasure he 
took in displaying their accomplishments to all 
the little ragamuffins in the park fully repaid 
him for the risks he ran. Mr. Ainsworth had 
objected to his taking them out : he did not 
like to see the boy, surrounded by a crowd of 
gamins, exhibiting his white mice. 

" He looks like a little vagrant," he would 
say discontentedly to his wife. " When he is 
with that class of children, he seems to be- 
come one of them. It is astonishing how 
many such traits develop in him from day to 
day. Sometimes I fear he will not improve." 


" He is growing older," Mrs. Ainsworth 
would return, with a sigh. " The charm of in- 
fancy is gone, and he is in the transition state 
between child and boy, — hardly an interesting 
age ; but in spite of his little faults he has a 
beautiful nature. I hope we shall be able to 
do our duty by him, but sometimes I have seri- 
ous misgivings. I am doubtful about the wis- 
dom of trying to substitute a strange child in 
the place of one's own flesh and blood." 

" Well, it 's too late to think of that now, 
Laura. It seemed best when we did it, and 
we must not shirk the responsibility. We can't 
always control our feelings, but we can always 
do right." And so the conversation ended 
without the satisfaction that they had come to 
any decision on a subject that was more or 
less troublesome. 

Early in September another rival came to 
take the place of Lucille, and in many respects 
a more formidable one than the little heiress. 
Mrs. Ainsworth had a fine little boy; he was 
named Edward for his father, and his appear- 
ance was hailed with great joy. Madam 
Ainsworth hurried from Newport. An elderly 
French nurse was engaged, and the little 
stranger was installed in Lucille's apartment 
with all the ceremony due to an heir of the 

When Philip first saw the child he turned 
quite pale, and his eyes were wet with tears 
as he stooped and kissed the pink cheeks ten- 
derly, and said, with a smile, " He 's very small, 
but I 'm sure I shall love him, and I mean to 
take care of him when he is older." 

Mrs. Ainsworth had dreaded the ordeal of 
the first meeting. She feared Philip might 
show some jealousy ; but the sweet manner of 
the boy quite satisfied her, and made her very 

When Bassett spoke of Philip's nose being 
out of joint, the" boy laughed, and rubbing his 
finger over that small feature declared that it 
was as straight as ever. " I guess there 's 
room enough for both of us in this big house, 
and it '11 be jolly by and by when he can run 
about and play with Pere Josef's ' children.' 
I '11 bet he won't scream when he sees them." 

Madam Ainsworth was as fussily fond of the 
new-comer as she was of Lucille. It had been 




a great sorrow to her that there was no one 
of the blood to inherit the name as well as the 
money. She could not bear to think that the 
little waif would be the only Ainsworth in the 
future, that a boy she could never love would 
be her only grandson. This baby had come 
to make her last days happy and peaceful, and 
a little prince was never received with greater 
rejoicing than was the tiny pink being who, 
watched with loving care, lay sleeping in his 
lace-trimmed cradle. 

Philip heard and saw all these demonstrations 
of satisfaction unmoved. It is true his blue 
eyes grew deeper and more serious, while his 
face thinned and paled daily. When the au- 
tumn winds blew rough and piercing, he com- 
plained of the cold, and Bassett noticed that 
he had a harsh little cough, but nobody else 
noticed it. The old butler gave him hoar- 
hound drops, but Philip handed them over to 
the first small beggar he met, while he drew 
his thick little ulster closer around him, glad 
that winter had come, for this winter they 
would surely take him home. Mrs. Ains- 
worth's lungs were delicate, and already they 
were talking of going south in the spring. " It 
must be soon now," Philip said to himself, as 
he counted away the weeks, hoping and wait- 
ing cheerfully. 

Chapter XXIII. 


One day in January, Madam Ainsworth 
came down-stairs, wrapped in furs from head 
to foot. She was going out for an airing, and 
as she stepped into the hall she was surprised 
to see Philip sitting before the open fire. He 
had drawn a large leather-covered chair close 
to the fender, while he leaned back against the 
cushion with closed eyes and folded hands. 
There was something touching in the boy's 
languid position and pale, tired face. Madam 
Ainsworth thought him sleeping; but when he 
heard her step, he started to his feet, a little 
confused and flushed. 

" Why, Philip," she said kindly, " are you 
cold, that you get so near the fire ? " 

"I was a little cold — not very," he replied, 
trying to smile brightly. 

" Have you been out to-day ? " she asked. 
Looking at him closely, she noticed for the first 
time how thin he was. 

" No, Madam; I have n't been out. I had 
no lessons to-day, but I 'm going for a walk 
by and by." 

" Would n't you rather go for a drive ? Get 
your fur coat and cap, and come with me." 

It was not the first time during the winter 
that Madam Ainsworth had invited Philip to 
drive with her. Since Mrs. Van Norcom went 
away she had no one to drive with her every 
day, and, rather than to go alone, she sometimes 
took Philip. Mrs. Van Norcom had decided 
that her health was much better abroad, and 
in consideration of that she concluded to make 
Paris her permanent home ; therefore she, Lu- 
cille, the poodle, the governess, and Helen had 
left New York soon after the arrival of Mrs. 
Ainsworth's little boy. Madam Ainsworth 
would have accompanied them had it not 
been for her interest in her little grandson, 
who, after all, was of greater importance than 
the little heiress. 

When she invited Philip to go out with her, 
the boy rather indifferently went for his coat. 
He did not much care for this ceremonious 
drive. The park was very dreary now : the 
trees were leafless, there was not a vestige of 
green, and in all the shady places were little 
patches of snow. The ponds were frozen over, 
and his birds were gone. They had flown 
away south, where he longed to follow them. 

As they drove up the avenue near to the 
entrance of the park, Philip's attention was 
attracted by a group of boys gathered around 
a forlorn, ragged little negro. The black mite's 
back was turned toward Philip, his fists were 
crammed into his eyes, and he was boo-hooing 
loudly. There had been a fight, and evidently 
the little ragamuffin had had the worst of it. 
Philip was interested instantly, and turned to 
stare at the group. Suddenly he started to his 
feet, and almost shouted: "It is — it is Lilybel! 
Thomas," he cried, seizing the colored coach- 
man by the arm, " stop, and let me get out. 
It 's Lilybel, and those boys are ill-treating 
him. Stop, and let me go, quick ! " 

Thomas drew up his horses shortly at the 
imperative command, and without a word to 

1893. : 



Madam Ainsworth, Philip sprang out of the 
carriage, and rushed into the group of boys. 
The old lady did not know what had hap- 
pened until, almost overcome with surprise and 
mortification, she saw the boy push through the 
throng, who scattered right and left, and clasp 
— yes, actually clasp — the hands of the worst- 

the fine carriage and hurry toward them, they 
scattered instantly, and left Philip and Lilybel 
the center of a crowd of curious spectators. 

At first the little negro did not recognize 

Philip, who almost deluged him with a stream 

of questions — "Where did you come -from ? 

How did you get here? When did you come? 

Is Seline with you ? " and the like, to 

which Lilybel replied, still whimpering 

and rubbing his eyes : 

"Is 't you, Mars' Philip? My, my! I 
did n't know 't war you — an' a coat on 
like a b'ar. I 's done be'n a-huntin' ev'ry- 
whar fer yer; an' what good clo'es yer 
got ! " and Lilybel looked at his old 
friend admiringly, while 
he shivered as 


looking specimen of colored humanity that she 
had ever seen. 

Thomas, with a knowing grin, turned and, 
touching his hat, looked at his mistress inter- 

" Yes," she said faintly, " go on quickly ; the 
boy must be insane." 

When the group of rough-looking gamins saw 
the handsome, well-dressed boy spring from 

much from his joy and excitement as from the 

" How did you get here ? " repeated Philip, 
excitedly ; " tell me how you came here." 

" I done cum in one o' dem big steamboats. 
My ma she gwine ter whip me good 'ca'se — 
'ca'se I los' her money. I jes' tuk it ter go ter 
er cirkus an' buy some ginge'-pop, an' my ma 
she war awful mad ; she say she war gwine ter 

1 66 



shake me till I could n't stan', so I jes' run away 
an' hid on one of dem bu'stin' big steamboats ; 
an' I was sick — I was awful sick." And Lilybel 
sniffed again at the thought of the miseries of 
his voluntary sea voyage. 

" Oh, Lilybel, you did wrong," said Philip, 
reprovingly. " What will poor Seline do ? " 

" My ma ? I spects she 's glad 'ca'se I 's 
dade; she t'inks I 's dade, 'ca'se I frovved my 
jacket an' hat inter der ruver, so she 'd t'ink 
I 's drownded." 

" Why, Lilybel, how wicked ! I 'm sorry 
you were so wicked," cried Philip, greatly 
shocked at the depravity of his friend. " But 
when was that ? How long ago ? Tell me 
all about it." 

" Oh, it war las' fall. I 's be'n yere more 'n 
a year, an' I 's be'n lookin' fer yer all der time." 

"Where have you been living ever since?" 
questioned Philip. 

" Over dar," pointing toward the East Side, 
" with a colored lady what keeps a boardin'- 
house ; an' she 's awful mean. She whip me 
good 'ca'se I pick up some money on der floor 
an' did n't guv it ter her. I foun' it, I did; an' 
it war mine. She whip me, an' war er-gwine ter 
send fer a p'leeceman, so I run erway, an' I 's 
be'n er-lookin' fer you, Mars' Philip." 

"Dear me! what a hard time you 've had, 
Lilybel," said Philip, sympathetically; "but the 
money was n't yours because you found it." 

" Yes, it war, Mars' Philip. I fouif it ; I 
did n't stole it." 

Philip felt that it was useless to try to make 
Lilybel understand the difference between meum 
and iuum ; so, looking pityingly at the fluttering 
rags and broken shoes, he said; "Well, come 
home with me. I 'II ask my mama to give 
you some clothes. Don't cry any more; I '11 
take care of you. Come on with me." 

And Philip, hailing a passing car, ushered 
Lilybel into it, and got in himself, as proudly as 
though his companion were dressed in purple 
and fine linen. 

An hour afterward, Philip, all energy and 
animation, rushed into Mrs. Ainsworth's room 
without even the ceremony of knocking. "Oh, 
Mama," he cried joyfully, "Lilybel is here! " 

"Who is Lilybel?" asked Mrs. Ainsworth, 
surprised and puzzled. She had quite forgotten 

the name of the droll little darky who had 
brought the basket when Philip came to stay 
with them. 

" Why, Mama, don't you remember Seline's 
Lilybel ? " demanded Philip, in a hurt voice. 

" Oh, yes, I remember now : the little colored 
boy in New Orleans." 

" Yes, that 's the one; he 's here, and he has n't 
an)' clothes ; he 's ragged and cold. I found 
him in the street ; he ran away and came here on 
a steamer, and he 's been looking for me. Some 
boys were fighting him because he had n't any 
one to take his part ; they hit him after he was 
down. Don't you call that mean to hit a fellow 
after he 's down ? But when they saw me, they 
ran away like cowards. If they hadn't, I would 
have paid them off." 

" Oh, Philip! Would you engage in a street 
fight ? " asked Mrs. Ainsworth, with some dis- 
gust in her voice. • 

" Yes, Mama, I would, if I saw any boy, espe- 
cially Lilybel, imposed upon. But say, Mama, 
may I give Lilybel some of my clothes — I 've 
got so many ; and may I ask Mr. Butler to give 
him some dinner ; and can he stay here ? " 

" Stay here ! Philip, why that is impossible. 
We have nowhere to put him ; and even if we 
had, we should have to get Madam Ainsworth's 
permission first." 

" But he can go in the stable with Thomas. 
If I ask Thomas, he will take care of him." 

Mrs. Ainsworth looked distressed. " Really, 
my dear, I don't know what to say until I ask 
your papa. You can give the boy the brown 
suit you wore last winter, and you may ask Bas- 
sett for some food for him ; but as to his staying 
here I can't give you an answer now. However, 
you can take him to the stable for the present." 

Philip ran away joyfully to search his ward- 
robe, and before another hour Lilybel was trans- 
formed into a respectable-looking boy, and 
Thomas had consented to allow him to share 
his quarters if Madam Ainsworth made no ob- 

That evening there was a sound of revelry 
in the stable. Philip disappeared directly after 
dinner, and Bassett was seen to slip out the back 
way with something in a basket covered with a 
napkin. Lilybel was in clover, and Philip was 
happier than he had been for a long time. 




Chapter XXIV. 


Madam Ainsworth did not consent, neither 
did she positively refuse, to allow Lilybel to be- 
come an inmate of the stable. She simply re- 
garded the matter as something beneath her 
consideration. For some time everything went 
on peacefully, and Philip was delighted with 
the excellent conduct of his friend. The only 
objectionable feature in the arrangement was 
that, in spite of Mr. and Mrs. Ainsworth's orders 
to the contrary, Philip spent most of his time in 
the stable with his funny little protege and the 
friendly Thomas, whose society was not exactly 
conducive to refinement and good manners; 
but there was a fascination about the 
small rascal that Philip could not re- 
sist. He did not intend to be dis- 
obedient, but almost before he 
was aware of it he was sit- 
ting on a box in the feed- 
room chatting about 
his old home, 
Dea, and 
Seline. . m» 

it was due to transition, — a transition from af- 
fection and interest to neglect and indifference, 
from his soft, sunny South to the cold, austere - 
North, from a simply natural life to one of hot- 
house culture and ultra-civilization. He was a 
transplanted wild-flower, and the experiment 
had not worked well ; he did not thrive in the 
-rich parterre of his new garden. 

One day Philip asked Lilybel if he would like 
to go home. The little negro grinned and said, 



Mrs. Ainsworth, happy and satisfied in her 
new motherhood, did not see that the boy was 
starving for affection, and that his distaste for 
his books and even his drawing, his lassitude 
and indifference, were the result of failing health. 
She noticed how thin and pale he was, but she 
thought he was growing too fast, that his condi- 
tion was due to the transition period which she 
had spoken of. And she was right in one way : 

" Yas, Mars' Philip." Then he added very de- 
cidedly : " But I ain't er-gwine ter go t' New 
'leens in no steamboat ; I 's er-gwine ter walk." 

" Oh, but it 's too far to walk," returned 
Philip. " I guess it would take more than a 
week to walk there." He had a very vague idea 
of the distance. 

" I could git lots o' lifts on dem freight- 
trains," returned Lilybel, eagerly ; " but I 's 

1 68 



'feared ter go alone. Mars' Philip, why don't 
yer run away an' go too ? " 

" Oh, I would n't run away. I want to go aw- 
ful, but I would n't run away. Besides, there 's 
no need of it : my papa and mama are going to 
take me soon, and you can go with us. I guess 
Seline will be glad to see you." 

Lilybel hung his head and grinned an affir- 
mative, although he was not quite sure that his 
"ma" would receive him with rapture. 

Shortly after this conversation, and about the 
time when Philip thought his long-cherished 
hopes were near to being realized, Mr. Ains- 
worth was suddenly called away on very urgent 
business in the far West, connected with a rail- 
road in which not only Madam Ainsworth, but 
also the little heiress had large interests, and 
again Philip saw the vision of his old home 
fade away into an indefinite future. 

About this time Lilybel struck up a sudden 
intimacy with a bootblack older than himself 
and of doubtful character, and he would have 
introduced his new chum into the select society 
of the stable had Thomas allowed him to do 
so. However, Lilybel spent much time with 
him, and would remain away for days together. 
When he returned he would be half clothed, 
dirty, and hungry. This was a severe tax on 
Philip's wardrobe as well as on his patience ; 
but this was not the worst. Often, after these 
sudden departures, some little thing would be 
missed by the servants — a spoon or fork by 
Bassett, a little money by the cook, or some 
of the kitchen-maid's jewelry. 

Gradually Lilybel had worked his way into 
the house — into the kitchen, the pantry, up the 
back stairs to Philip's room ; and one day, 
when Madam Ainsworth found him gravely 
examining the articles on her toilet-table, she 
said she could endure no more. The visit 
to her room accounted for the disappearance, 
some time before, of a valuable ring. The boy 
was a thief, and he must go, or she would send 
for an officer to arrest him. 

Philip was in a dreadful state of terror. The 
thought of Lilybel being sent to prison was unen- 
durable. He could not believe his protege was 
guilty, but he took him aside and lectured him 
severely, gave him a fresh supply of clothes and 
some of his pocket-money, and bade him go 

out and find a place where he could earn his 
bread and meat. 

Lilybel promised humbly to do as Philip told 
him; but in a week he was back, hanging 
around the stable in a most forlorn condition. 
When Philip was secretly called out to him, 
the little rascal was- sniffling and shivering with 
cold. His warm jacket was gone, and he had 
got rid of his shoes. It was freezing, and the 
little beggar's bare feet made Philip's heart 
ache ; he was in despair, not knowing what 
to do with his troublesome dependent. There 
was only one thing that he could think of, and 
that was to beg the soft-hearted Thomas to 
smuggle him into the stable again until he 
could find some way out of the dilemma. 

" I 's mos' starved, I is," was Lilybel's first 
complaint when he was once more installed in 
the comfortable stable. 

" Oh, Lilybel, what did you do with the 
money I gave you ? " said Philip, in a discour- 
aged voice. " Why did n't you get something 
to eat?" 

" I is, Mars' Philip. I 's got can' peaches an' 

" But why did n't you get bread and meat ? " 

"'Ca'se I likes can' peaches an' sardines der 

What could Philip say to such reasoning ? 
Again Bassett was taken into the boy's confi- 
dence, and again the kind old soul stood by 
his little friend, and secretly, and with many 
misgivings, furnished food for the hungry 

In the house nothing more was heard 
of Philip's troublesome protege, and Madam 
Ainsworth congratulated herself that she had 
got rid of a nuisance — when, one day, as she 
approached the entrance to her home, she was 
surprised to see a crowd of men and boys 
around the steps. Her first thought was of fire 
within ; but no, their attention seemed to be 
centered on something without. When Tho- 
mas drew up hurriedly before the door, and 
she made her way through the tightly packed 
throng, she saw with horror a sign on the upper 
step. It was made of the top of a pasteboard 
box, and on it was rudely printed with shoe- 
blacking : "Wite mise ter sea five sents a site." 
Beside the sign was Lilybel, in one of Philip's 

i8g 3 .] 



best jackets, and near him sat the shoeblack 
holding the cage that contained Pere Josef's 
" children," while he set forth in a loud voice 
the many accomplishments of the tiny creatures, 
who, frightened by the strange crowd, raced 
and scampered about the cage with astonishing 

Madam Ainsworth almost fainted. " Thomas, 
disperse the crowd," she gasped, as she made 
her way up the steps, " and take these away ! " 
indicating the cage, the sign, and Lilybel. 

To the credit of Philip, we will say that he 
was with his tutor, and knew nothing about the 
exhibition. It was entirely a business arrange- 
ment between Lilybel and the shoeblack. 

{ To be con 

When Madam Ainsworth ferreted out the 
truth that Lilybel was again installed in the 
stable, and that Philip was aware of it, her 
indignation knew no bounds, and for a mo- 
ment she came near turning her son's adopted 
son and the "children" out of the house 

Again, as he had done a year before, Philip 
was obliged to plead for the innocent " chil- 
dren," but this time with less pleasant results. 
The crisis had come, and there was no tempo- 
rizing. Lilybel at least must go, and go perma- 
nently. As to the fate of the poor " children," 
Philip was for a time left in a state of harrow- 
ing uncertainty. 



By E. L. Sylvester. 

Phcebe brings the tea-pot, the tea is all a-steam; 
Dolly brings the pitcher filled with golden cream. 
Rhoda has the dainty cups rimmed about with blue, 
And Polly brings the pretty spoons shining bright as new. 
The Baby trips along behind, looking very droll; 
And she, the sweetest of them all, brings the sugar-bowl. 

Vol. XXI.— 22. 


Three new dolls sat on three little chairs, 

Waiting for Christmas day ; 
And they wondered, when she saw them, 

What the little girl would say. 

They hoped that the nursery life was gay ; 

And they hoped that they would find 
The little girl often played with dolls ; 

And they hoped that she was kind. 

Near by sat an old doll neatly dressed 
In a new frock, black and red ; 

She smiled at the French dolls — "As to that, 
Don't feel afraid," she said. 

The new dolls turned their waxen heads, 
And looked with a haughty stare, 

As if they never had seen before 
That a doll was sitting there. 

Oh, we 're not in the least afraid," said one 
" We are quite too fine and new ; 
But perhaps you yourself will find that now 
She will scarcely care for you." 

The old doll shook her head and smiled : 
She smiled, although she knew 

Her plaster nose was almost gone, 
And her cheeks were faded too. 

And now it was day; in came the child, 

And there all gay and bright 
Sat three new dolls in little chairs — 

It was a lovely sight. 

She praised their curls, and noticed too 
How finely they were dressed; 

But the old doll all the while was held 
Clasped close against her breast. 

Katharine JPyk. 



By A. Lee. 

When I was a- walking one day, one day, 

I met a wee laddie a-crying away. 

Wee lad, and what 's the matter ? " quoth I ; 
: Why do you cry and cry and cry ? " 

Alas ! " he sobbed, " I 've lost a penny 

Just given me by sister Jenny ! " 

Then dry your eyes," quoth I, "nor trouble; 

Here are two pennies — I make it double." 

The wee lad smiled with pleasure plain, 

But soon began to cry again. 
: What, what ! " said I, " and still a-sighing ? 

Now what 's the matter, — with all your crying?" 
: Alack, good sir ! " quoth he, quoth he, 
: If I had n't lost one, I 'd now have three ! " 


The German band, in the noonday heat, 
Stopped on a corner of the street. 
Birkenheimer and Mederwurst 
With cornets under their arms were first ; 
Next Schmidt with a clarinet that shone ; 
Then Hans Von Beck with a great trombone ; 
While after them there would always come 
Little Dutch Fritz with his big bass drum ; 
And, as the gathering crowd he eyed, 
Birkenheimer, the leader, cried : 
" Ein — zwei — drei — so! 
Vier — funf — led her go!" 
Then woompety-woompety-woomp they went, 
And folks, wherever they took their stand, 
Would always say, when they heard them play, 
There was nothing to equal the German band ! 




Windows flew open at the sound, 

And rollicking children waltzed around; 

The organ-grinder across the way 

Fled with his monkey in wild dismay ; 

Wagner and Meyerbeer's pleasing tones 

Mingled with those of Smith and Jones; 

Cheeks swelled to cracking and eyes popped 

As bars of music were put to rout. 
They gasped a moment for breath, and then 
Birkenheimer cried out again : 

" Ein — zwei — drei — so ! 
Vier — funf — led her go!" 
Then bingety-bingety-bing they went, 
And folks, wherever they took their stand, 
Would always say, when the)' heard them 

There was nothing to equal the German band ! 

Mrs. Alderman Hogan from her flat 

Threw down a dime when they passed the 

Mrs. Rafferty never gave a cent, 
For it was the day that she paid her rent; birkenheimer counts 





The little Rooneys, who shared alike 

In a copper, the gift of their uncle Mike, 

Whispered something, and then began 

To look for the hoky-poky man ; 

And Birkenheimer, who shook his head 

While counting the proceeds, once more said : 

" Ein — zwei — drei — so ! 
Vier — funf — led her go ! " 
Then bangety-bangety-bang they went, 
And folks, wherever they took their stand, 
Would always say, when they heard them play, 
There was nothing to equal the German band ! 


[We are indebted to Mr. John P. Spaulding of Boston, and to Helen Keller herself, for permission to print her 
letter to Mr. Spaulding, which is here given ; and her teacher, Miss Anna M. Sullivan,has kindly sent an interesting 
introductory note to accompany the letter. The story of Helen's life has already been told to readers of this mag- 
azine in the notable article " Helen Keller," written by Mrs. Florence Howe Hall, and printed in St. Nicholas 
for September, 18S9. — Editor.] 

In the letter from Helen Keller here printed, 
you will read in her own words that she spent 
three weeks in Chicago during the Exposition, 
" and had a perfectly splendid time." Thousands 
and thousands of American young folk will 
share her enthusiasm as they recall the delight- 
ful days at the wonderful show, when, seeing it all 
and hearing all about it, they took in pleasure 
and information at every turn. But little Helen 

Keller can neither see nor hear. Everything is 
a blank to her until an impression can be made 
either through her imagination or through the 
deaf and dumb language of the hands and fin- 
gers; and even then, in Helen Keller's case, 
the words are not seen but felt by her own palm 
and fingers as they lightly hold the hand that is 
making these signs of words and letters. 

The president and the managers of the Ex- 



position were exceedingly kind to her, and did 
all in their power to make her visit pleasant 
and instructive. So widely is she known, and 
so general is the interest in her, that wherever 
she went she received loving attention. The 
task of describing things to her was made 
lighter by the helpful sympathy of the chiefs of 
the departments. They gladly permitted her to 
pass her fingers over the exhibits whenever it 
was possible, and cheerfully gave her all the in- 
formation they could. Of course I interpreted 
everything to Helen by means of the manual 
alphabet. She was allowed even to climb upon 
the great Krupp gun, and its workings were ex- 
plained to us by one of the German officers. 
Everywhere the show-cases were opened for 
her, and rare works of art were given to her 
for examination. 

At the Cape of Good Hope exhibit the great 
doors were unlocked, and Helen was admitted 
to the realm of diamonds, where everything was 
carefully explained to us about the precious 
stone : how it is mined, separated from the 
matrix, weighed, cut, and set. Wherever it 
was possible she touched the machinery, and fol- 
lowed the work being done. Then she was 
made very happy by being allowed to find a 
diamond herself — the only true diamond, we 
assured her, that had ever been found in the 
United States. 

But the French bronzes afforded her more 
pleasure than anything else at the Fair. The 
picture which she presented as she bent over 
a beautiful group, her eager fingers studying 
the faces or following the graceful lines of the 
figures, in her effort to catch the artists' thought, 
was the most touching and pathetic I have 
ever seen. And, strange as it may seem to 
those who depend upon their eyes for the plea- 
sure which they derive from works of art, this 
little blind girl, who has not seen the light since 
she was nineteen months old, rarely failed to 
divine the thoughts which the artists had 
wrought into their work. 

Constant practice, indeed, has given to 
Helen's sense of touch a delicacy and precision 
seldom attained even by the blind. Sometimes 
it seems as if her very soul were in her fingers, 
she finds so much to interest her everywhere. 
People frequently said to me at the Fair: " She 


sees more with her fingers than we do with our 
eyes." And in one of her letters she says, " I am 
like the people my dear friend Dr. Holmes 
tells about, ' with eyes in their fingers that spy 
out everything interesting, and take hold of it 
as the magnet picks out iron-filings.' " 

Descriptions are to Helen what paintings are 
to us ; and her well-trained imagination gives 
the light and color. One evening, as we sat in 
a gondola, I tried to tell Helen how the thou- 
sands of tiny electric lights were reflected in 
the water of the lagoons, when she asked: 
" Does it look as if a shower of golden fish had 
been caught in an invisible net ? " Is it any 
wonder that Dr. Holmes says of her, " She is 
a poet whose lyre was taken from her in her 
early days, but whose soul is full of music " ? 

So we see, pathetic as Helen's life must 
always seem to those who enjoy the blessings 
of sight and hearing, that it is yet full of bright- 
ness and cheer, of courage and hope. 

Sweet Helen, when I think of thee, — 
With sightless eye and sealed ear, 
Yet pining not in misery, 
But with a spirit full of cheer, 
Seeing with inward vision clear 
The loveliness of earth and sky, — 
I blush that mortals blessed as I 
So little see, so little hear ! 

Anna M. Sullivan. 

Helen's letter. 

Hulton, Penn., August 18, 1893. 
My dear Friend : Teacher is very tired, 
so I will take upon myself the pleasant duty 
of writing to you. I know you are impatient 
to hear all about our visit to the World's Fair. 
We spent nearly three weeks in Chicago, and 
had a perfectly splendid time. We thought of 
you very often, and wished that you were with 
us, enjoying everything as much as we did. 
It was all so grand and marvelous. I am sure 
the world has never seen anything half as 
beautiful as the Dream City of the West, and 
I feel very proud and glad that this dream of 
loveliness has been realized in our own dear 
country. Of course it would be impossible 
for me to tell you in a letter all that we did, 
felt, and saw while we were in Chicago ; for 
we saw innumerable wonders, the works of 



man in every country and in all times : mar- 
vels of invention; wonderful treasures of skill 
and patient industry ; and beautiful works of 
art, which made us feel, when we touched them, 
that the artist's soul was in his hand when he 
created them. 

We approached the White City the first time 
from the lake side, and got our first impression 
of the Fair from the peristyle. It was a bright, 
clear day; the sky and water were a perfect 
blue, making a most beautiful setting for the 
Dream City, crowned by the glistening dome 
of the Administration Building. Then we 
moved slowly up the Court of Honor, pausing 
every now and then while the teacher de- 
scribed the beautiful scene to me : the groups 
of noble buildings ; the lagoons dotted with 
fast-moving boats ; the stately statue of the 
Republic ; the fluted columns of the peristyle ; 
and, beyond, the deep, deep blue lake. Oh, 
how wonderful it all was ! Our day was most 
delightfully spent in getting a general idea of 
the Fair, and trying to understand the new 
world in which we found ourselves. Late in 
the afternoon, when the day was almost done, 
we stepped into a gondola, and made the trip 
through the lagoons. The burning sun, as he 
sank westward in his golden car, threw a soft 
rosy light over the White City, making it 
seem more than ever .like Fairyland. When 
it was quite dark the illuminations began, and 
the fountains were all lighted up. Teacher 
described everything to me so vividly and 
clearly that it seemed as if I could really see 
the wonderful showers of light dart up into the 
sky, tremble there for an instant, sink and fall, 
like stars, into the depths of the lake. But, 
dear friend, the most delightful days must end; 
for little girls will get sleepy and tired, even 
in Fairyland. AVhile the White City was yet 
crowded with eager sight-seers, we returned to 
our hotel through the Midway Plaisance, a 
most bewildering and fascinating place, the 
Home of the Nations. We were greatly 
pleased to see all those foreign people we had 
read about in history, gathered together in one 
place, at peace with one another, and appa- 
rently happy in their new homes. At the en- 
trance to the Arabian house we saw a dear 
little baby boy in his mother's arms, and we 


stopped a moment to speak to him. He 
greeted us with a bright smile, and looked up 
at the strange faces with surprised pleasure. 
" Where was the baby born ? " we asked the 
mother. " In Damascus," was the reply. 
Those words made me start. That far-away 
city, with its strange Oriental life, seemed very 
near indeed. I felt like sitting down beside 
the gentle woman who had the lovely baby, 
for there were many questions which I wished 
to ask her ; but it was late, and to-morrow with 
new opportunities and delights was hastening 
toward us. So I bade the little Oriental good- 
by, and went away, feeling as if I had really 
been to Damascus. 

In the days that followed we spent many 
most enjoyable hours in the Plaisance. Old 
Vienna, and the Japanese and Irish villages, 
were very interesting and instructive. I did 
not like the Turks very well, but the Japa- 
nese were gay and amusing. Of course we 
rode in the Ferris Wheel. Just think of being 
swung two hundred and fifty feet in the air ! 
No, I was not at all afraid. I liked it. I also 
rode on the ice-railway, and had a sail in the 
great Whaleback, and enjoyed them both very 
much; but I must not stop to tell you about 
these things when there is so much of greater 
interest which I wish to tell you, for I saw 
a great many of the most wonderful and beau- 
tiful things at the Fair. Every one was very 
kind to me. The president of the Fair gave 
me permission to examine all the exhibits. Was 
not that exceedingly kind ? Nearly all the 
exhibitors seemed perfectly willing to let me 
touch the most delicate things, and were good 
about explaining everything to me. A French 
gentleman showed me the wonderful French 
bronzes. I think they gave me more pleasure 
than anything else at the Fair : they were so 
lifelike and beautiful to my touch. Dear Mr. 
Bell went with us himself to the Electrical 
Building, and showed us some of the historic 
telephones. Dr. Gillett went with us to the 
Liberal Arts and Woman's Buildings. In the 
former I visited Tiffany's exhibit, and held the 
beautiful Tiffany diamond, and touched many 
other costly and rare things. I sat in King 
Ludwig's arm-chair, and felt quite like a queen 
when Dr. Gillett told me that I had many duti- 

i8 93 -] 



fill subjects. At the Woman's Building we met 
the Princess Maria Schaovsky, of Russia — a 
very kind lady. We also met a lovely dark- 
eyed Syrian lady. She had such a beautiful 
soft hand, and spoke English perfectly. Mr. 
Bell and Professor Put- 
nam explained the cu- 
rious and interesting 
things in the Anthro- 
pological department 
to me. I was especially 
interested in the Peru- 
vian relics and all that 
was told to me about 
them. At the time of 
the discovery of Amer- 
ica, it seems, Peru, like 
Mexico, was inhabited 
by Indians who were 
considerably advanced 
in civilization, and who 
were governed by a 
race of princes called 
Incas, whose domin- 
ions extended along the 
Andes from the United 
States to the southern 
part of Chile. The life 
and achievements of 
this strange and almost 
forgotten people, as 
they are revealed to us 
by their pottery, imple- 
ments, and sacred al- 
tars, are very interest- 
ing, and I should like to 

We spent one very pleasant afternoon in La 
Rabida, which is modeled after the monastery 
in Spain where Columbus, weary and hungry, 
sought and received shelter for himself and his 
little son four centuries ago. The kind monks 
detained him for several months, and, becom- 
ing interested in his dreams of discovery, gave 
him letters to persons high in authority. After 
several years of failures and hardships he at 
length returned to La Rabida, bearing a royal 
order that the people should provide him with 

vessels and supplies for his journey. When he 
came back from America he again visited the 
monastery, bearing the news and trophies of 
his discovery. 

There is a great deal more about which I 


would like to write, but I fear my letter is get- 
ting too long, so I will say good-by for the 

We are having a delightful time here, resting 
and enjoying all the beauty of the place. The 
country has especial attractions for us after the 
heat and excitement of Chicago. I do not 
know when we shall leave, but I am anxious 
to see the dear ones at home. 

Lovingly, your little friend, 

Helen Keller. 

Vol. XXI.— 23. 


By Gwendolen Overton. 

Ted and George were sitting perched on the 
fence near the corral. One was whittling, and 
the other was punching holes in a strap. 

" What are you going to do with that ? " 
asked Ted. 

" I 'm going to swing my canteen with it," 
answered George. 

" What will you do with a canteen ? You 
are n't going to march." 

" Oh, I 'm not, eh ? Well, I just am." Ted 
stared, and George went on. " You see, Ted, 
I 'm bigger than you ; I 'm fourteen, and Papa 
says I can keep up with the men." 

The younger boy resented this. 

" I 'm strong, anyway, if I am only eight ; 
an' I can keep up with you." 

" Yes, you might if you did n't have any- 
thing to carry ; you 're pretty strong for a little 
kid. But you see I am going to lug a canteen, 
and a knapsack, and my Flobert rifle. You 
could n' do that, you know." 

"Yes, I could, — that is, if you don't go too 
far. How far are you going ? " 

" Oh, 'bout ten miles the first day," an- 
swered George, squinting through a hole in 
the leather, and exaggerating the distance by 
two miles, to add to the effect. " Yes, 'bout 
ten or 'leven miles. Not much of a walk for a 
big fellow like me, but it would be too much 
for a little kid like you — a little kid like you — 
a li-it-tle ki-id li-ike you-ou-ou ! " he sang, with 
an exasperating ring of conscious superiority in 
his voice. 

" It would n't, either," retorted Ted. " I 
could do it." 

•'You could, could you ? But you won't — 
you would n't dare try it." 

" I will try it," said Ted, — " that is, if mama 
will let me," he added on second thoughts. 

And he scrambled to the ground, with bliss- 
ful disregard of stocking-knees and splintered 

Ted's sorrel bronco was grazing near, and 
the little boy was on his saddleless back in an 
instant, and tearing off at a dead run. A ner- 
vous recruit held his breath as Ted went over 




logs and ditches, but the older soldiers only 
watched him admiringly, knowing that nothing 
could unseat " the Captain's boy." 

Ted drew up before his father's quarters, and 
ran into the house shouting, " Mama ! Mama ! " 
Finding her in the garden, without pausing for 
breath he began : " Please, Mama, can't I go ? 
George says I 'm not strong enough ; but it 's 
not far — only ten miles. I can, can't I ?" 

" Can what, Ted dear ? Come, calm your- 
self, and don't switch the heads off those asters. 
Can you do what ? I don't understand." 

" Why, this : You know that the infantry is 
ordered off, and is going to march to-morrow 
morning. George 's papa is a ' doughboy ' — 
that 's what we cavalry fellows call the infantry- 
men — and he is to go; and he is going to let 
George march along with the men. May n't 
I march, too? It is n't far — only ten miles 
the first day, and the ambulance will come 
back from the camp. I can ride back in that 
at night. May n't I — please?" 

" Do you think you could walk that far, 
Ted ? " was the reply. " I think it is not more 
than eight miles, but I doubt if my boy could 
stand the midsummer heat for so many hours. 

" Yes, 

I could ; 

yes, I 'm 


George says 

I am too lit- 

— but I 'm not, 

" Not if you think 
you could do it. What 
you make up your mind to, you are sure to do. 
Yes, you may go," said his mother. 


Ted thanked her joyously, and hastened 
back to George with the news that he was 
going. George said he was very glad, and 
called him " old fellow," and the golden-haired 
little cavalryman felt very important, indeed ; 
he felt that he had grown at least two inches, 
and he strode to and fro accordingly. 

It was quite early the next morning when the 
companies started off to the sound of the fife 
and drum, — hardly more than eight o'clock, and 
the sun had not yet made itself felt. Ted and 
George were with the privates, determination 
and pride showing in every line of their bright 
young faces. Each had a canteen slung over 
his shoulder, a knapsack on his back, and his 
Flobert rifle at " shoulder arms." There was 
nothing but water in those canteens, nothing 
but hardtack and fried bacon in those knap- 
sacks. Their mothers had suggested lemonade 
and sandwiches, but the bovs had scorned the 
idea ; they would carry only what the soldiers 
carried, and claim no luxuries besides. 

It was very nice for the first mile or two, 

then the rifles began to feel heavy, and they 

put them at " support." They both wanted a 

drink, but an old soldier told them that they 

must not touch water on the 

march, or they would " play 

out." So they closed their 

lips and tried not to mind 

the heat and dust ; but it was 

a severe test, and George, it 

must be owned, gave in first. 

" I can't stand it any longer; I must 

have just a sip of water," he told the 

old soldier. 

So the boy took a long draught and fell 

into step again. Ted ground his teeth and put 

temptation from him ; it was very hard, but by 

and by he did n't mind so much, though he 

was very hot. He walked mechanically, and 

grasped his Flobert nervously. 

Soon George actually gave a groan and ex- 
claimed, " Well, I can't stand this canteen any 
longer; it 's too heavy. You carry it, Smith; 
will you, please ? " 

The soldier took it and then turned to the 
little cavalryman, whose bright curls were moist 
and dull with the dust. " Shall I carry yours 
too, old man ? " 



" No, thank you ; I guess I can keep it," 
gasped he, and he trudged bravely along. 

" That youngster has plenty o' grit," muttered 
Smith to the man next him in the line. 

At the end of the fifth mile, George turned 
his rifle and knapsack over to the soldier, but 
still Ted held tight to his. He was quite pale 

marched seven miles in the scorching Arizona 
sun. George dropped under a tree and took a 
long drink from the canteen. Ted drew a long 
breath, a quivering breath, and then — every- 
thing grew black. 

When he came to, there was a corporal bend- 
ing over him and bathing his face. He was 


now, and there were blue rings under his eyes ; 
but he politely refused all offers of aid, for the 
words " a little kid like you " echoed in his ears, 
so he kept step as at first. Then came the big 
boy's crowning humiliation. He had to take 
the hand of the soldier next to him to keep up. 
Ted felt a great longing to stop and fling him- 
self down upon the ground, but he choked back 
what was nearly a sob. 

At last came the welcome halt. They had 

in Smith's arms, and surrounded by quite a 
group of soldiers. " You were just a little tired, 
Ted, and you went to sleep," the corporal told 
him; and then, drawing George aside, he whis- 
pered to him, " If you ever let that brave little 
fellow know that he fainted, I '11 make things 
lively for you!" 

" You see, George, it was very hot," said Ted 
a little later. " But I did pretty well for a ' little 
kid,' and a cavalryman at that, did n't I ? " 







YOUR JACK has talked with you so often of the 
holly with its bright red berries, and the mistletoe 
with its waxen white ones — and of Christmas carols, 
and waits, and Yule logs, and all sorts of delightful 
things pertaining to the coming day of days, that 
this time there should be a change. Therefore is 
he content heartily to wish you, one and all, this 
good thing: a bright, beautiful, merry Christmas, 
ample in itself, but most rich in the comforts and 
joys you may give to others, and poor only in such 
thoughts and feelings as are not worth having at 
any time o' year. 

Now, my rosy runners and tumblers, my skaters, 
sliders, coasters, and snowballers, my bicyclers, 
pitchers, and good-timers ! — what say you to enter- 
ing the United States navy just far enough to hear 
this true account written for you by Ensign Philip 
Andrews ? He calls it 


WHO would think that a rooster could become a 
great pet on board ship ? But on the flag-ship 
"Chicago," the man-of-war which last spring 
traveled almost six thousand miles to get home for 
the Columbian naval parade, there was a rooster 
that was the pet of all the men on board ship. He 
was bought in the West Indies, on the way to 
Montevideo, and was intended for the Christmas 
dinner, but his great cheerfulness, as shown by his 
hearty crowing in the most unseasonable weather, 
won him his life. 

After his liberty had been given to him, and he 
had become fairly tame, he noticed one day another 
very proud rooster in a polished brass ventilator 
which stands on the quarter-deck. He immedi- 
ately put on his proudest air; then, noticing that 
the other rooster did the same, he stepped closer 
to inquire, and soon found himself glaring pug- 
naciously at that other fellow, who seemed quite 

as defiant as himself. From looks it came to blows, 
and soon our rooster was indignantly fighting his 
own reflection. Occasionally he would strike the 
ventilator a very haid blow with his bill and be 
thrown back much astonished, only to return to 
the attack when he noticed that his enemy appa- 
rently retreated. 

This was kept up at intervals for several weeks, 
until the rooster learned that more hard knocks 
than glory were to be got by keeping up the feud. 
Even now, after many months on board, he occa- 
sionally renews the attack, but in a half-hearted 
way, as if he knew he was doing something silly. 

His name is "Dick," and when there is food 
ahead he answers to it like a gentleman. At 
Ensenada, in the Argentine Republic, the Chi- 
cago lay alongside the dock in the Grand Canal, 
and Dick was allowed to run on shore and pick up 
what he could find. He never strayed far from the 
gangway, and would come proudly strutting back 
when called on board by one of the men. 

He is a very pugnacious bird, and in Ensenada 
started a fight between a dog and himself. The 
combat, witnessed by the whole ship's company, 
while productive of no harm to either side, was a 
most amusing sight, and consisted of dashes at the 
dog with occasional real blows on the part of the 
rooster, and much barking and running about on 
the part of the dog. 


Deacon Green tells me that buffaloes are every 
day becoming more and more scarce. The larger 
herds which once roamed our western country are 
gone, and even stragglers are very few. Before 
many years their great shaggy heads will quite dis- 
appear from the plains unless the hunters, to a 
man, consent to spare their lives. 

" Buffalo-robes," I am informed " once were sold 
in the West for a dollar apiece. They are now worth 
twenty dollars or more ; and a stuffed buffalo-head 
cannot be bought for less than seven or eight times 
that sum. " 

The buffaloes — poor fellows ! — probably are not 
as much elated by this fact as the hunters may sup- 
pose. You see, it is a poor consolation for the loss 
of one's life and freedom, to have one's very expen- 
sive head stuffed and hung up against a wall. 


Dear Jack : There is a question I should like to have 
answered — one that has tried our family for a very long 
while. Of course the dear Little Schoolma'am lias 
heard it before, but many of your readers may not be 
familiar with it. 

It is this : " Would it be possible for a man to walk 
around a tree on which is a squirrel, without walking 
around the squirrel ? " I think it would ; but many do 
not agree with me. My reasons for believing that the 
man does not walk around the squirrel are : first, if 
they begin to move at the same time, and move at the 
same relative rate of speetl as they are facing each other, 
their position toward each other is not changed — and 
they have neither of them been around the other; for 
would n't it be impossible to get around anything with- 
out changing your position toward it ? Secondly, as 

i3 93 .J 


I8 3 

the man has never gone past the back of the squirrel, 
or even seen it, and as the dictionaries' definitions of 
"around" are "encircling" " encompassing on every 
side," and the man has not encircled the squirrel " on 
every side " (he has not been behind him), therefore the 
man has not been around the squirrel. 
Yours respectfully, 

Charlotte Locke. 

What say you on this matter, my hearers ? I 
never tried to run around a squirrel myself, though 
many a squirrel has run around me. Think out 
an answer to C. L.'s query, if you can ; and if you 
cannot do this, my birds suggest that some fine 
day you and a lively squirrel take a trial trip to- 
gether into the subject. 

Here comes your good friend J. C. Beard — 
this time, as usual, with a new picture drawn for 
you from life, and an account of its subject, also 
written for you, my dear crowd of beholders and 


Monkeys, as a rule, — certainly as we in America 
know them, — are not distinguished for good man- 
ners, beauty, or tidiness, and surely not for ele- 
gance or grace. Yet now we have a new species 
to consider: a monkey possessed of all these good 
qualities, yet playful and active as any of its frisky 
kindred. For its introduction we are indebted 
to Dr. Abbott, of Philadelphia, who discovered 
it recently at Mount Kilima-Njaro, in the east- 
ern part of equatorial Africa, and brought back to 
America the fine specimens which are shown in 

this picture. Not only are these monkeys neat, 
quiet, and well-behaved, but they are among the 
most beautiful of animals, and they are said to take 
the greatest care not to soil or to injure the beau- 
tiful coat of long hair with which they are adorned. 
The drapery of silky, silvery-white hair begins at 
the shoulders, extends along the sides of the body, 
and meets over the lower part of the back. When 
the animal springs swiftly from one bough to an- 
other the floating of this beautiful mantle gives it 
the appearance of being winged. The chin, throat, 
temples, sides of the head, and a band above the 
eyes are also white ; the rest of the body is covered 
with soft, glossy, jet-black fur. The tail, which is 
unrivaled by that of any other monkey in the world, 
is fringed with pure white hair that glistens like 
spun glass, and the hair gradually increases in 
length as it approaches the tip, where it droops 
like a festoon of silvery grasses. 

The five brought here by Dr. Abbott and pre- 
sented to the Smithsonian Institution are with one 
exception, it is believed, the only specimens that 
have ever been seen outside the native home of the 
animal. The candatus, as this species has been 
named, belongs to a remarkable genus of so-called 
thumbless monkeys which have in the last ten 
years furnished millions of victims to the goddess 
Fashion. Their beautiful skins have been so greatly 
in demand for robes, capes, and muffs that the 
whole race is in danger of extinction. The species 
most valued for this purpose is Colobtis guereza 
of Abyssinia, a species nearly related to the cau- 
datus, and resembling it considerably, though not 
nearly so beautiful. 



Good morrow, my lads and maidens ; 

Good morrow, kind people all ! 
I 'm bidden by dear old Santa Claus 

To make you a little call. 

And, knowing your gracious courtesy, 

I leave you a card to say : 
; Remember the little ones of the poor 
On the bountiful Christmas Day ! " 


GtmiL VJlVwVTon tOwitKos. 

By Joel Stacy. 

'Ere 's all our leetle vamily — 

Myzelf and zisters two. 
Big Rychie's eyes don't open vide, 

And leetle Katzie's do. 

Katzie 's zo zlow and plump-y ! 

And Rychie 's grown zo tall! 
But all the zense she has n't got 

You vood not miss at all. 

Ve 'd be a vunny vamily 

If it vos not for me; 
For I 'm the only boy ve have, 

And zmartest of the three. 



(A Story in "Dictionary Language") 

By Samuel Conkey. 

Being easily exsuscitated, and an amnicolist 
fond of inescating fish and broggling, with an 
ineluctable desire for the amolition of care, I 
took a punt and descended the river in a 
snithy gale. The water being smooth, I felt I 
could venture with incolumity, as I was fa- 
miliar with the obuncous river. 

Having broggled without result, I rowed to- 
ward an eyot, intending merely to quiddle, 
when I suddenly saw a hackee. Wishing to 
capture him, I decided to circumnavigate and 
take him unaware. Landing, I derned myself 
where I could see the hackee deracinating 
grass. He discovered me and skugged behind 
a tree, occasionally protruding his noil. 

Seizing a stick, I awaited the caput. When 
the neb appeared, I feagued him. The hackee, 
which is pedimanous, tried to climb the bole. 
He seemed sheepish, and I suspected him of 
some michery, especially as his cheeks seemed 
ampullaceous. I caught him by the tail, and 
he skirled. Though he was sprack, I held on 
with reddour, and tried finally to sowle him. 
The hackee looked soyned and tried 
to scyle. I belabored him and 
he cleped, making vigor- 
ous oppugnation, and 
evidently longing 
for divagation. 

Then a pirogue approached and an agricultor 
landed. This distracted the hackee and I sowled 
him, but dropped him because he scratched so. 
I vowed to exungulate him when caught. 

Borrowing a fazzolet, I tried to yend it over 
the hackee's head, as a means of occecation. 
The agricultor aided. He was not attractive, 
seeming crapulous and not unlike a picaroon. 
He had a siphunculated dinner-pail, which 
looked as if he had been battering it while pug- 
ging. But with a stick and some string he 
made a gin, and tried to make the hackee bis- 
son. This caused quinching by the hackee, 
who seized the coadjutor's hallux. Thus exas- 
perated, the agricultor captured the hackee, 
without any migniardise ; but he glouted over 
the bite, and his rage was not quatted until 
the hackee was a lich. Carrying it to the 
punt, I sank into a queachy spot, which 
delayed me until the gale obnubilated the 

While removing the pelage, I found the 

lich somewhat olid because the swinker had 

feagued the hackee, an so I yended 

the lich away, went to market, 

and supped upon a 

spitchcock, and 

a hot bisk. 

Vol. XXI.— 24. 




Santa Claus's letters begin to pour into the general 
post-office as early as December I, and the flow increases 
daily. Mr. E. P. Jones, of the dead-letter department, 
who takes charge of all the mail addressed to the merry 
old gentleman, says he never saw anything like this 
year's work before. Mr. Jones ought to know, for he 
has handled Santa Claus's mail for the past twenty 

A very general notion prevails, Mr. Jones says, among 
young folks who have occasion to communicate with 
Santa Claus, that his home is in this city, despite the 
fact that he is constantly pictured driving a reindeer to 
a sledge over a snow-bound country covered with fir- 
trees. For this reason nearly all of his letters go through 
the local post-office, and are forwarded by Mr. Jones and 
his able assistants to the Washington dead-letter office, 
where, it is presumed, they are opened by Santa Claus's 
private secretary. 

The letters come from all over the country. It is 
curious to note that most of them come from places out- 
side of New York. Perhaps the reason for this is that 
there are so many Christmas charities in this city that 
the fear of Santa Claus not putting in an appearance at 
the appointed time is not so keenly felt here as in some 
other places. 

It is interesting to look over Santa Claus's mail. Of 
course you cannot open it, any more than you would be 
allowed to open the mail of any other private or public 
citizen. The addresses are so curious, and written with 
such evident pains, and the parenthetical remarks, which 
are often added as a last reminder on the envelops, so 
appealing, and there is such an air of confidence and 
sincerity about them all, that it is not necessary to exam- 
ine the contents for entertainment. 

Santa Claus, Mr. Jones says, is an idol worshiped by 


Under this heading will appear from time to time brief 
selections from newspapers and similar sources — current 
bits of anecdote and information, of especial interest to 
young folk. 

the rich and poor alike, as you would very soon know 
if you glanced over his mail. The letters come in all 
sorts of envelops, and some of them in none at all. 
There are delicately tinted letters with crests on the 
back, from children who plead for a pony or a carriage ; 
and there are the letters of another sort, from desti- 
tute little ones, who plead with good Mr. Santa Claus for 
a stocking full of candy or a rattle for the baby. The 
granting of these widely different requests would afford 
equal satisfaction to either receiver, as it would, no 
doubt, to Mr. Claus also. 

Eighteen letters for Santa Claus were received at the 
New York post-office one morning. No two were di- 
rected exactly alike. The first was the most direct, and 
was the only one in which a definite address was given. 
Here it is : 

444 Cherry street, 

New York. 

This was written in a scrawling hand, but the number 
was quite plain. It was probably the only one of the 
lot that did not go directly to the dead-letter office. 
There was the name, a definite number on a definite 
street in a definite city, and in the lower left-hand corner 
was the regular United States two-cent postage-stamp. 
So the letter was given to the proper carrier, who took it 
to the Cherry street address. When it came back this 
legend was stamped in red ink across the face : 


There is something realistic in the word "removed." 
It shows at least that the post-office folks are not skeptical 
in the belief that Santa Claus had\i\s home at 444 Cherry 
street. If this be true, some young persons will think it 
was very careless in the old gentleman not to leave his 
new address. But he is so busy at this time of the year 
that he may have forgotten it. 

One letter, dated at Haverstraw, was addressed like 
this on a thick, creamy envelop : 

P. S. — If not called for by Xmas, please return. 


I8 7 

This was the only one in which Mr. Claus was ad- 
dressed familiarly. But perhaps he and the writer are 
old friends, which does not seem improbable, judging 
from the quality of the envelop and the seal on the 
back. The letter will have to be sent to Washington 
with the others, if not called for, owing to the absence 
of a return address. 

The majority of the letters are addressed strangely. 
There are numerous variations in the spelling of Claus, 
and not a few, probably Germans, write it with a K. 
Here are two examples : 

To Dear Santa Klaus, 
New York City. 

This is dated from Stanfordville, N. Y. It is not quite 
so fervent as the next : 

Dear Mr. Postmaster : 
Bring this to Dear Santa 

Such a touching appeal as this the postmaster thought 
he could not fail to respond to. 

Sometimes, when the envelop is carelessly sealed, or 
when there is no envelop at all, the missive being held 
in shape merely by the stamp, it comes apart and the 
contents are disclosed. Under these circumstances it is, 
the authorities think, perhaps permissible to read them. 
Under any other, there would be a manifest impropriety 
in prying into the confidences of these youngsters. 

There was one such letter this morning. It came 
folded and turned down at one corner, and the stamp 
was placed so as to hold the folded corner down. It read 
as follows : 

Chittenango, N. Y. 

Dear Mr. Santa Claus : I only want a pare of skates 
for Crissmas and if it aint cold a sled will do My old ones 
bust. If they aint no snow I would like anything you 
think of. My mamma says you are poor this year. 

Yours truly, C N . 

— Exchange. 


The chronicles of the Pilgrims, describing their arri- 
val in Cape Cod bay, in December, 1620, refer briefly 
to the first Christmas spent by them in America; and 
what was done in Plymouth village the next Christmas is 
described in the quaint language of Governor Bradford : 

On ye day called Christmas-day, ye Govr. called 
them out to worke (as was used), but ye most of this 
new company excused themselves and said it went 
against their consciences to work on ye day. So ye 
Govr. told them that if they made it matter of conscience, 
he would spare them till they w r ere better informed. So 
he led away ye rest and left them, but when they came 
home at noon from their worke, he found them in ye 
streete at play, openly, some pitching ye barr, and some 
at stoole-ball, and such like sports. So he went to them 

and took away their implements and told them that was 
against his conscience, that they should play and others 
worke. If they made ye keeping of it mater of devo- 
tion, let them kepe their houses, but there should be no 
gaming or revelling in ye streets. 


In connection with the holly, which figures so con- 
spicuously in all our Christmas decorations, we find a 
quaint old conceit chronicled, that every holly bough 
and lump of berries with which you adorn your house is 
an act of natural piety as well as beauty, and will, in 
summer, enable you to relish that green world of which 
you show yourself not unworthy. In Germany and 
Scandinavia the holly, or holy tree, is called " Christ's 
thorn," from its use in church decorations, and because 
it bears its berries at Christmas-tide. The loving senti- 
ment imprisoned in the holly bough and translatable 
into every language can hardly be more happily ex- 
pressed than in Charles Mackay's verses, " Under the 
Holly Bough": 

Ye who have scorned each other, 
Or injured friend or brother, 

In this fast-fading year; 
Ye who by word or deed 
Have made a kind heart bleed, 

Come, gather here ! 
Let sinned against and sinning 
Forget their strife's beginning, 

And join in friendship now ; 
Be links no longer broken, 
Be sweet forgiveness spoken, 

Under the holly bough. 

To Germany the civilized world is indebted fos one of 
the most enjoyable of all Christmas delights, the Christ- 
mas tree. This custom was little known in England 
before the marriage of Queen Victoria, and was, we be- 
lieve, introduced by the late Prince Consort. We call 
it a gift from Germany, and yet, behind the quaint fig- 
ure of Kris Kringle, coming from the snowy woods, 
with the tree rising high above his genial shoulders, 
laden with gifts and glittering with lanterns, as he sud- 
denly invades the lowly German cottage on kindly er- 
rand bent, we see the yet more ancient toy pine-tree, 
hung with oscilla, which boys and girls in ancient Rome 
looked for on the sixth and seventh days of the Satur- 
nalia. But we who are not antiquaries are content to 
accept these pretty customs, come whence they may, and 
to improve on them if we can. A wide gulf is fixed be- 
tween the Puritanic days, when Christmas was frowned 
upon as a remnant of evil superstition, and to-day, when 
nothing is too rare or good for the making of our homes 
bright and our sanctuaries beautiful in honor of the 
Author of the Christian Feast. Wherever civilized 
man is found, there, in one form or another, we find 
the tokens of adoration and gratitude. 

New York Evening Post. 


Perhaps the title and meaning of the poem, " The 
House on the Rath," may not be quite clear to all our 
readers without a word of explanation. The "rath" is 
a ring-shaped mound where fairies are supposed by the 
Irish peasantry to hold their dances. 

The term "boreen," which occurs later in the same 
poem, is explained in the dictionary to be a shortened 
form of the Irish word bothar, a road (pronounced boher), 
with the ending in (pronounced eeti), meaning little. 
The word boreen, therefore, means a little road, or nar- 
row lane. 

the boys enjoy it, Mama does n't, because every boy, ex- 
cept the baby, is sure to come from playing in the orchard 
with damp feet and very muddy clothes. 

No one knows that I am writing, and if this letter is 
published, they will be very much surprised. Wishing 
you a long and prosperous life, I am (like the little girl 
in the February number), 

Your "ever reader," 

Adelaide Harrington B . 

Philadelphia, Penn. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I read so 
many letters from your readers that 
I feel as though I should write also 
and tell you how delightful I think 
your magazine is. 

I have taken you for many years, 
and I don't think I could get on with- 
out you. I have just come home 
from a visit to the beautiful " White 
City," and I feel as though I have 
seen the world. The grounds are 
lovely, and I think the buildings 
handsomer than anything I have 
seen in. Europe. I felt so proud 
as I walked through the rows of 
State buildings and saw the " Old 
Liberty Bell " in the Pennsylvania 
building! I can see it every day, 
as I walk down Chestnut street ; 
but out there, guarded by men, I 
felt it my duty to push my way in 
and get a peep at the old bell. 

On Pennsylvania clay the Fair 
was crowded to see our gallant City 
Troops ; and the Old Liberty Bell 
looked its best with the Stars and 
Stripes flying overhead. I look 
forward with the greatest pleasure 
to the coming of St. Nicholas, 
and it is a great delight when I 
see you waiting for me when I 
have come from school. 

Always your devoted reader, 

Los Angeles, Cal. 

My dear St. Nicholas : I am 
the oldest, and the only girl of a 
family of six. Just think! — five 
others, and all of them boys ! 

We live right in the midst of an 
orange orchard, and so we have as 
many oranges as we care to eat. 
The orchard is irrigated almost 
every three months, and though 

We are sure our readers will enjoy Miss Virginia 
Woodward Cloud's charming song "Old Christmas," 
which is printed on page 112 of this number; and we 
gladly give space here to the full score of the music. 




■St ~- " 
It s a long way round the year, my dears, A long way round the year ! I 

It- •*•' 

— 9 — m -^ 1- 





~> |S - 


jv — E - »- m 



found the frost and the flame, my dears, I found the smile and tear 1 The 

^j> — -t E » — - 3 Bp 

* wind blew high on the pine-topp'dhil^And cut me keen on the moor: The 

-ft \~ 

ifrpE i r 

1 -1— I S=g 








-9 — 9— 9 — i 

gfe^EEgEg £«=*=« Ec 


3=:fcE: -Mz 


heart of the stream was froz-en still, As I tapped at the mil - ler's door; I 



Btayed me not in an - y spot, For I'd travel' d around the year To 






bring the Christmas joy, my dears, To your eyes sobonuie and true; And a 



= =t 

mlstle-toe bough for you, my dears, A mis-tle-toe bough for youl 







Gkneva, Switzerland. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am a young American girl 
from New York, and my two sisters and I are at a French 
boarding-school. We came to Geneva to study French. 

I think Geneva is one of the most charming places I 
ever saw ; the lake is such a wonderful blue, and the lateen 
sails are so picturesque. On our way to Geneva we 
stopped at Heidelberg, where we saw some students with 
their faces marked with scars which they had received in 
duels. One day last August we went up the lake with 
our parents to Chillon. We went through the castle of 
Chillon, and saw the stone pillar to which Bonnivard was 
chained for six years, and the place where his feet had 
worn the stone away ; we saw the names of Byron, Vic- 
tor Hugo, Shelley, and several other well-known writers 
cut in the walls and pillars. We also saw the bedrooms 
of the old Dukes of Savoy. It was a very interesting 
visit. We took St. Nicholas for several years in 
America, and we have it sent to us here. It seems like 
a bit of home, and we enjoy your lovely stories so much. 
Your sincere well-wisher, 

Florence C . 


Dear St. Nicholas : I stay all 
summer in a beautiful camp on the edge 
of Lake Asquam. I have been at Pine- 
hurst (that is the name of the camp) 
four years. There are four little chil- 
dren here, counting myself. There are 
two boys and two girls. We have a 
great deal of fun going in bathing. My 
brother is teaching me how to swim. 
We go on picnics, and have such fun ! 
We can see the "lone pine" that Mr. 
Whittier wrote about. We go on hay- 
rides. Sometimes we get covered by 
the hay: then we all scramble. I am 
ten years old. Your little reader, 
Nina B. F . 

Albuquerque, New Mexico. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have taken 
you only one year, but am very fond of 
you. I like "The White Cave" best, 
and also like " From Montresa to San 
Mateo," in the July number. 

I was eight years old the 17th of July, 
and my brother was five the same day. 
He says a good many funny things ; the 
other day he said he felt of the cat's 

We had a big rain here last week, 
which is so unusual that we enjoyed 
wading in the mud and water. It has 
not rained much for two years. 

I look eagerly for your coming every 
month, and hope you '11 always come. 

Your devoted reader and friend, 
Roy M. W . 

The Snowflakes. 

In the nights of chilly winter, 
When the stormy breezes blow, 

When the rivers all are frozen, 

And the ground is white with snow, 

When the sleighing-bells are ringing, 
And the wind is howling loud, 

Then the little snowflake fairies 
Fall from out the stormy cloud, 

Landing on the hills and meadows, 

On the squirrels pay a call, 
Hushing all the trees to sleep, so 

Soft and silently they fall. 

Flying this way, flying that way, 

Not allowed a bit of rest, 
For the lively wind is blowing, 

And he likes them whirling best. 

Philis Damain (thirteen years). 

Nantucket, Mass. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I have spent my summer holi- 
day at the quaint old island of Nantucket, where I went 
fishing on the jetty and saw the eels whisking through 
the rocks as they passed my hook; and if fishes wore 
coats, I would say they were laughing in their sleeves 
at the thought of being caught by a city boy. I went to 
the county fair, and as I am no judge of cattle I will let 



them pass, and tell you about the foot-race and the po- 
tato-race. The boys that ran took off their shoes, some 
took off their stockings, and some ran with their heavy 
boots on; but the winner, when he got to the goal, was as 
white as a sheet from running so far and fast. 

Then there was a potato-race ; ten boys competed for 
that, and each one carried a pail. There were ten piles 
of potatoes, ten potatoes in each pile, and a boy stationed 
at each pile, so as to see that the boy did not take more 
than one potato at a time. Then a man dropped a bag, 
and they all started off at full speed, but after a few po- 
tatoes were taken, they began to run slower. 

After the race was finished, a cart came with some 
lemonade for the boys. Then they had a " free-to-all 
race" of horses, and it was very exciting. The man 
that won was a New Bedford man, and he had a carriage 
with pneumatic tires, and a fine black horse. 

Yours truly, Arthur S . 

Birwood, Fox Chase, Philadelphia. 

Dear St. Nicholas : lama little girl, eleven years 
old. We have taken you long before I was born. I 
think you are the very nicest magazine I know of. 

I will tell you that I have a dear little fox-terrier. 
She is very gentle with the family, but any one else that 
comes in the house she takes a hold of their toes and 

trips them up. A very funny thing happened the other 
day. I was going out driving with my pony "Stella"; I 
did not want "Lallah," the little dog, to come with me, so 
I put her upon a chair at ten o'clock, and at one o'clock, 
when I got home, I heard something crying. I went 
out, and there she was on the chair. I had told her not 
to get down, and she was afraid to disobey me. 
I am your devoted reader, 

Clifford N . 

We have received a special budget of interesting and 
neatly written letters from a number of pupils of the 
District School of Germantown, California. Each letter 
is accompanied by a corrected version of the misspelled 
tale printed in " Jack-in-the-Pulpit " in St. Nicholas 
for September, and the names of the writers are : A. A. 
Rehse, F. E. Lutts, Henry Runge, Henry Henricksen, 
Dora Jansen, Lena Runge, Amanda Lohse, Minnie 
Schluter, Martha Hill. 

We thank the young friends whose names follow for 
pleasant letters received from them: Emma F. O., Ger- 
trude J., Sadie G. N., Veronica S., Linda S., Etta T., 
G. A. L., Elsie C, Ethel H. L., Bessie B., Margaret M., 
Verne H. P., F. K. M., James V. M., Julia E. H., Ha- 
zel K., Ruth W., H. F. S., Nellie H. McC, Marguerite 
and May, Edith L. V. 


' Wait ! Wait ! I '11 be down in a minute ! 


Hidden Fishes, i. Opah. 2. Perch. 3. Bass. 4. Skate. 5. Bo- 
nito. 6. Sole. 7. Shad. 8. Angler. 9. Barbel. 10. Carp. 
Anagram. Benvenuto Cellini. 

Central Acrostic. Cornwallis. Cross-words: 1. yaCht. 2. slOth. 
3. shRew. 4. wiNch. 5. faWns. 6. ovAte. 7. MaLay. 8. beLts. 
9. swine. 10. haSte. 

Pi. O'er these low meadows hangs a spell 

That holds a strange, poetic charm : 
I hear it in the far cowbell 

As vagrant cattle seek the farm. 
E'en in these bleak November days 

There 's gladness for the heart that heeds. 
The marsh to me no gloom conveys, 
Though the grey frost be on the weeds. 
Hexagon, i. Talc. 2. Areas. 3. Leered. 4. Caramel. 5. Sem- 
ble. 6. Delve. 7. Leer. 

Primal Acrostic. Tiny Tim. Cross-words: 1. Thyme. 2. In- 
. Thick. 6. Italy. 

Word-building. E, Ed, end, send, rends, drones, ponders, 
pounders, ponderous. 

Numerical Enigma. Language is the armory of the human 
mind, and at once contains the trophies of its past, and the weapons 
of its future conquests. 

Word-square, i. Plant. 2. Liver. 3. Avise. 4. Nests. 5. Tress. 

Double Acrostic. Primals, Stalactites ; finals, Stalagmites. 
Cross-words: 1. Stones. 2. Turquoise. 3. Amethyst. 4. Lapis- 
lazuli. 5. Aluminium. 6. Crag. 7. Tufa. 8. Interval. 9. Terra- 
cotta. 10. Everest. 11. Slates. 

Hour-glass. Centrals, Willows. Cross-words : 1. Showers. 

2. Sting. 3. Ale. 4. L. 5. Dog. 6. Sower. 7. Chasing. 
Diamonds Connected by a Central Square. I. 1. D. 2. Beg. 

3. Begum. 4. Degrees. 5. Guest, 6. Met. 7. S. II. 1. F. 2. Pat. 
3. Pasha. 4. Fastens. 5. Theft. 6. Ant. 7. S. III. 1. Poser. 

2. Ochre. 3. Sheaf. 4. Erase. 5. Refer. IV. 1. F. 2. Cab. 

3. Canal. 4. Fanatic. 5. Bathe. 6. Lie. 7. C. V. 1. F. 2. Dew. 
3. Demon. 4. Femoral. 5. Worry. 6. Nay. 7. L. 

Those that 

dia. 3. Naiad. 4. Youth. 5. Thick. 6. Italy. 7. Murre. 

C. B. S. and others: Any one, whether a regular subscriber or not, is at liberty to send puzzles to the Riddle-box. 
cannot be used will be returned, if a stamp is inclosed. 

To our Puzzlers : Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th of each month, and should 
be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the September Number were received, before September 15th, from Helen Gertrude Carter — 
L. O. E. — Helen McCleary — Mama and Jamie — " M. McG." — "The Wise Five " and Bessie — "Infantry" — Josephine Sherwood — 
Ida Carleton Thallon — Uncle Mung — Chester B. Sumner — Paul Rowley — Paul Reese — " Highmount Girls" — G. B. Dyer — E. M. 
G. — Jo and I. 

Answers to Puzzles in the September Number were received, before September 15th, from Eva Lavino, 1 — Florence Guil- 
landers, 1 — Carrie Chester, 2 — Elaine S., 3 — " Stubbs Isabel, " 1 — David Asch, 1 — Grace Isabel, 1 — Laura Sanford, 1 — Edna M. 
Barrows, 1 — Jennie Wiles, 3 — "Massachusetts," 1 — "Lady Clermont," 1 — Maud E. Palmer, 9 — " Allan-a-dale," 1 — L. H. K., 1 — 
Ruth Henry, 1 — Mama and Helen, 1 — M. Louise Davis, 1 — K. C. H., 1 — Geo. S. Seymour, 3 — M. A. H., 4 — Helen Herbert, 3 — 
Eleanor O. and Nettie D., 1 —Floy and Elsie, 1 — Two Little Brothers, 3 — Robin T., 8— Eloy, 2— Adele S., 1 — Clara M. Ebert, 1 — J. 
Hanson Coburn, 1 — Eva and Bessie, 8 — Betty C. , 1 — Helen and Almy, 1 — Leonard and Kathie Worcester, 2 — Mama and Sadie, 5 — 
Margaret Buckingham, 1 — Gait Ramond, 8 — Vincent V. M. Beede, 5 — Edwin Rutherford, 1 — Ethel et Cie, 7 — " Morleena Ken- 
wigs," 7 — Hubert L. Bingay, 7 — Jessie Chapman, 9 — Marion and May, 1 — Eric Ross Wainwright, 2 — Emelie G. Stevenson, 1. 


My primals and finals, when read in connection, spell 
what we hope to give our readers henceforth. 

Cross-words (of equal length) : 1. To collect into a 
mass or heap. 2. A certain popular game at cards. 3. A 
Norwegian poet and dramatist. 4. A famous city of 
India. 5. Moral. 6. To disconcert. 7. The middle 
name of an American essayist and philosopher. S. To 
abolish. 9. The Australian bear. 10. Passages out of 

a place. " CORNELIA BLIMBER." 


the ancient Romans. 14. To treat 
15. Very cold. 16. A tropical fruit, 


with contempt. 
17. A cavalry 

Crembede prods on wake, gritlenen rate, 
Yb rou donf semrum hispymates sanerend ; 

Ron form het freptec cleric fo eht yare 
Nac veen triswen saltcry megs eb drapse. 


All of the words described contain the same number 
of letters. When these are rightly guessed and placed 
one below another, in the order here given, the zigzag, 
beginning at the upper left-hand letter, will spell a name 
given by the old Greeks and Romans to the Rock of 
Gibraltar and the opposite mountain of Jebel Zatout. 

CROSS-WORDS : 1. To repair clumsily. 2. A mascu- 
line name. 3. A beautiful white flower. 4. To utter 
harsh rebuke. 5. A lady beloved by Petrarch. 6. A 
place arranged for playing the game of tennis. 7* En- 
dangers. 8. To vaunt one's self. 9. A made-up story 
intended to enforce some useful precept. 10. In advance. 
11. To cut off. 12. A map. 13. A garment worn by 

From I to 2, marked by a wound ; from I to 3, up- 
braided ; from 2 to 3, hung loosely downward ; from 
4 to 5, half of a military company ; from 4 to 6, an asso- 
ciate in business; from 5 to 6, pertaining to a nodule. 


I. i. Myself. 2. A verb. 3. Wickedness. 4. A 
symbol. 5. Resounds. 6. Curves made by the inter- 
section of two arches. 7. Awakening. 8. Cleaning by 
friction. 9. Feasting noisily. 

II. 1. A consonant. 2. A conjunction. 3. A deer. 
4. Mere repetition. 5. An elector. 6. Hidden. 7. One 
who envies. 8. A war-vessel, ranking next below a 
frigate. george s. s. 



10. And he added the forehead of the giant of old 
Which was struck with a stone by the boy from 
the fold. 

..JH^ftVfeiL I- I- In chase. 2. The cry of 

ft. (M«L a sheep. 3. The Spanish for n. And the tongue was that Greek's who discoursed 
1 |iW "Saint." 4. Consumed. 5. In 
V chase. 
II. 1. In chase. 2. A town 
of Germany. 3. The last name of a per- 12. He modeled the skull from the Frenchman renowned, 
sonage beloved by children. 4. A drink- Whose brain was the heaviest doctors have found, 

ing-cup. 5. In chase. 

The two central letters of the foregoing diamonds will 13. The neck was like one topped by no head at all 
spell the name of a gracious personage. Outside of the Banqueting-House at Whitehall. 

well of yore, 
Not always to men, but to waves on the shore. 

: M. T. BRAINS." 


A famous explorer : 


An American man of letters : 



Said a mighty magician in Beloochistan, 
" I will mold a composite, historical man." 

14. The body was that cf the man who once cried, 
"Make way for Liberty," made it-"-and died. 

15. At one side was a beautiful arm whereon lay 
A deadly asp sprung from a fatal bouquet. 

16. And, queerly attached, was that mad actor's hand 
That once pulled a trigger and saddened a land. 

17. On the other side hung an arm, wrinkled and old, 
That defended our flag once, as Whittier told. 

18. And its hand was the man's whose signature free 
"King George might decipher from over the sea." 

1. First, he copied the square, unmistakable chin 

Of the man who war, peace, and hearts was first in. 19. One leg was a wooden one, silver strips round it, 

In the grave of an old Knickerbocker he found it. 

2. The lips were the traitor's, sent as was fit, 

As Dante relates, to the uttermost pit. 20. The other a Norman, once kissed in a pet, 

And managed its owner, a king, to upset. 

3. Above, the long nose of a player he set 

That struck the piano — and won him a bet. And how was this puppet historical dressed? 

In garments quite motley it must be confessed. 

4. A king's eye he made in one side of the head 

With an arrow stuck in it — the king was found dead. 21. On its head was that thousand-year-old iron crown 

By two monarchs worn, each of mighty renown. 

5. Its mate was the giant's of mythical story 

Which blazed from his forehead alone in its glory. 22. In its toga a score of wide rents had been made 

By the dagger that round Pompey's statue had played. 

6. One ear was that man's in revenge for whose pain 

Great Britain was forced to declare war with Spain. 23. But gaily a mantle was over it thrown, 

That the foot of a queen had once trodden upon. 

7. And the other, the ear that was cut off in wrath 
But restored by a miracle, free from all scath. 

8. A part of the hair was his who was hung 

In an oak, the far depths of Ephraim among. 

9. But seven locks once were that hero's so bold 
Who of lion and honey a riddle once told. 

24. On the leg that was royal a traitorous boot 
That carried despatches completed the suit. 

The historical man was then placed on a throne, 
As motley a figure as ever was known ; 
He is sitting there still, my informant so states, 
With a mystified air and a mouthful of dates. 



Vol. XXI. 

JANUARY, 1894. 

Copyright, 1893, by The Century Co. All rights reserved. 

No. 3. 


By Rudyard Kipling. 

It was seven o'clock of a very warm even- 
ing in the Seeonee hills when Father Wolf 
woke up from his day's rest, scratched himself, 
yawned, and spread out his paws one after 
the other to get rid of the sleepy feeling in 
their tips. Mother Wolf lay with her big gray 
nose dropped across her four tumbling, squeal- 
ing cubs, and the moon shone into the mouth 
of the cave where they all lived. " Augrh ! " 
said Father Wolf, "it is time to hunt again"; 
and he was going to spring down hill when 
a little shadow with a bushy tail crossed the 
threshold and whined : " Good luck go with 
you, O Chief of the Wolves; and good luck 
and strong white teeth go with the noble 
children, that they may never forget the hungry 
in this world." 

It was the jackal — Tabaqui, the Dish-licker — 
and the wolves of India despise Tabaqui be- 
cause he runs about making mischief, and tell- 
ing tales, and eating rags and pieces of leather 
from the village rubbish-heaps. But they are 
afraid of him too, because Tabaqui, more than 
any one else in the jungle, is apt to go mad, 
and then he forgets that he was ever afraid 
of any one, and runs through the forest biting 
everything in his way. Even the tiger runs 
and hides when little Tabaqui goes mad, for 
madness is the most disgraceful thing that can 

overtake a wild creature. We call it hydro- 
phobia, but they call it dnvanee — the mad- 
ness — and run. 

" Enter, then, and look," said Father Wolf, 
stiffly; "but there is no food here." 

"For a wolf, no," said Tabaqui; "but for so 
mean a person as myself a dry bone is a good 
feast. Who are we, the Gidur-log [the jackal 
people], to pick and choose?" He scuttled 
to the back of the cave, where he found the 
bone of a buck with some meat on it, and sat 
cracking the end merrily. 

"All thanks for this good meal," he said, 
licking his lips. " How beautiful are the noble 
children ! How large are their eyes ! And so 
young too ! Indeed, indeed, I might have re- 
membered that the children of kings are men 
from the beginning." 

Now, Tabaqui knew as well as any one else 
that there is nothing so unlucky as to compli- 
ment children to their faces; and it pleased him 
to see Mother and Father Wolf look uncom- 

Tabaqui sat still, rejoicing in the mischief 
that he had made, and then he said spite- 
fully : 

" Shere Khan, the Big One, has shifted his 
hunting-grounds. He will hunt among these 
hills for the next moon, so he has told me." 



Shere Khan was the tiger who lived near the 
Waingunga River, twenty miles away. 

" He has no right! " Father Wolf began an- 
grily — "By the Law of the Jungle he has no 
right to change his quarters without due warning. 
He will frighten every head of game within ten 
miles, and I — I have to kill for two, these days." 


I might 

Shere Khan below in the thickets, 
have saved myself the message." 

Father Wolf listened, and below in the valley 
that ran down to a little river, he heard the 
dry, angry, snarly, singsong whine of a tiger 
who has caught nothing and does not care if 
all the jungle knows it. 


" His mother did not call him Lungri [the 
Lame One] for nothing," said Mother Wolf, 
quietly. " He has been lame in one foot from 
his birth. That is why he has only killed cattle. 
Now the villagers of the Waingunga are angry 
with him, and he has come here to make our 
villagers angry. They will scour the jungle for 
him when he is far away, and we and our chil- 
dren must run when the grass is set alight. In- 
deed, we are very grateful to Shere Khan ! " 

" Shall I tell him of your gratitude ? " said 

"Out!" snapped Father Wolf. "Out and 
hunt with thy master. Thou hast done harm 
enough for one night." 

" I go," said Tabaqui, quietly. " Ye can hear 

"The fool!" said Father Wolf. "To begin 
a night's work with that noise ! Does he think 
that our buck are like his fat Waingunga 

" H'sh ! It is neither bullock nor buck he 
hunts to-night," said Mother Wolf. " It is 
Man." The whine had changed to a sort of 
humming purr that seemed to come from every 
quarter of the compass. It was the noise that 
bewilders wood-cutters and gipsies sleeping in 
the open, and makes them run sometimes into 
the very mouth of the tiger. 

" Man ! " said Father Wolf, showing all his 
white teeth. " Faugh ! Are there not enough 
beetles and frogs in the tanks that he must eat 
Man, and on our ground too ! " 




The Law of the Jungle, which never orders 
anything without a reason, forbids every beast to 
eat Man except when he is killing to show his 
children how to kill, and then he must hunt out- 
side the hunting-grounds of his pack or tribe. 
The real reason for this is that man-killing 
means, sooner or later, the arrival of white men 
on elephants, with guns, and hundreds of brown 
men with gongs and rockets and torches. Then 
everybody in the jungle suffers. The reason 
the beasts give among themselves is that Man 
is the weakest and most defenseless of all living 
things, and it is unsportsmanlike to touch him. 
They say too — and it is true — that man-eaters 
become mangy, and lose their teeth. 

The purr grew louder, and ended in the full- 
throated " Aaarh ! " of the tiger's charge. 

Then there was a howl — an untigerish 
howl — from Shere Khan. " He has missed," 
said Mother Wolf. "What is it?" 

Father Wolf ran out a few paces and heard 
Shere Khan muttering and mumbling savagely, 
as he tumbled about in the scrub. 

" The fool has had no more sense than to 
jump at a woodcutters' camp-fire, and has 
burned his feet," said Father Wolf, with a 
grunt. " Tabaqui is with him." 

" Something is coming up hill," said Mother 
Wolf, twitching one ear. " Get ready." 

The bushes rustled a little in the thicket, and 
Father Wolf dropped with his haunches under 
him, ready for his leap. Then, if you had been 
watching, you would have seen the most won- 
derful thing in the world — the wolf checked in 
mid-spring. He made his bound before he saw 
what it was he was jumping at, and then he tried 
to stop himself. The result was that he shot up 
straight into the air for four or five feet, landing 
almost where he left ground. 

"Man! "he snapped. "A man's cub. Look!" 

Directly in front of him, holding on by a low 
branch, stood a naked brown baby who could 
just walk — as soft and as dimpled a little atom 
as ever came to a wolf's cave at night. He 
looked up into Father Wolf's face, and laughed. 

" Is that a man's cub ? " said Mother Wolf. 
" I have never seen one. Bring it here." 

A wolf accustomed to moving his own cubs 
can, if necessary, mouth an egg without break- 
ing it, and though Father Wolf's jaws closed 

right on the child's back not a tooth even dented 
the skin, as he laid it down among the cubs. 

" How little ! How naked, and — how bold ! " 
said Mother Wolf, softly. The baby was push- 
ing his way between the cubs to get close to 
the warm hide. " Ahai ! He is taking his 
meal with the others. And so this is a man's 
cub. Now, was there ever a wolf that could 
boast of a man's cub among her children?" 

" I have heard now and again of such a 
thing, but never in our Pack or in my time," 
said Father Wolf. " He is altogether without 
hair, and I could kill him with a touch of my 
foot. But see, he looks up and is not afraid." 

The moonlight was blocked out of the mouth 
of the cave, for Shere Khan's great square 
head and shoulders were thrust into the en- 
trance. Tabaqui, behind him, was squeaking : 
" My Lord, my Lord, it went in here ! " 

" Shere Khan does us great honor," said 
Father Wolf, but his eyes were very angry. 
"What does Shere Khan need?" 

" My quarry. A man's cub went this way," 
said Shere Khan. " Its parents have run off. 
Give it to me." 

Shere Khan had jumped at a woodcutters' 
camp-fire, as Father Wolf had said, and was 
furious from the pain of his burned feet. But 
Father Wolf knew that the mouth of the cave 
was too narrow for a tiger to come in by. Even 
where he was, Shere Khan's shoulders and fore 
paws were cramped for want of room, as a man's 
would be if he tried to fight in a barrel. 

" The Wolves are a free people," said Father 
Wolf. " They take orders from the Head of the 
Pack, and not from any striped cattle-killer. 
The man's cub is ours — to kill if we choose." 

" Ye choose and ye do not choose ! What talk 
is this of choosing ? By the bull that I killed, 
am I to stand nosing into your dog's den for my 
fair dues ? It is I, Shere Khan, who speak !" 

The tiger's roar filled the cave with thunder. 
Mother Wolf shook herself clear of the cubs 
and sprang forward, her eyes, like two green 
moons in the darkness, facing the blazing eyes 
of Shere Khan. 

"And it is I, Raksha [that means The De- 
mon], who answer. The man's cub is mine, 
Lungri — mine to me ! He shall not be killed. 
He shall live to run with the Pack and to hunt 




with the Pack; and in the end, look you, hunter 
of little naked cubs — frog-eater — fish-killer — 
he shall hunt thee ! Now get hence, or by the 
Sambhur that I killed (/ eat no starved cattle), 
back thou goest to thy mother, burned beast of 
the jungle, lamer than ever thou earnest into the 
world! Go!" 

Father Wolf looked on amazed. He had 
almost forgotten the days when he won 
Mother Wolf in fair fight from five other 
wolves, when she ran in the Pack and was not 
called The Demon for compliment's sake. 
Shere Khan might have faced Father Wolf, 
but he could not stand up against Mother 
Wolf, for he knew that where he was she had 
all the advantage of the ground, and would 

of man-cubs. The cub is mine, and into my 
teeth he will come in the end, O bush-tailed 
thieves ! " 

Mother Wolf threw herself down panting 
among the cubs, and Father Wolf said to her 
gravely : 

" Shere Khan speaks this much truth. The 
cub must be shown to the Pack. Wilt thou 
still keep him, Mother?" 

" Keep him ! " she gasped. " He came naked, 
by night, alone and very hungry ; yet he was 
not afraid ! Look, he has pushed one of my 
babes to one side already. And that lame 
butcher would have killed him and would have 
run off to the Waingunga while the villagers 
here hunted through all our lairs in revenge ! 



fight to the death. So he backed out of the 
cave-mouth growling, and when he was clear 
he shouted : 

" Each dog barks in his own kennel ! We 
will see what the Pack will say to this fostering 

Keep him? Assuredly I will keep him. — Lie 
still, little frog. O thou Mowgli, — for Mowgli 
the Frog I will call thee, — the time will come 
when thou wilt hunt Shere Khan as he has 
hunted thee." 

l8 9 4- 


I 99 

"But what will our Pack say?" said Father 

The Law of the Jungle lays down very clearly 
that any wolf may, when he marries, with- 
draw from the Pack he belongs to ; but as soon 
as his cubs are old 
enough to stand on 
their feet he must 
bring them to the 
Pack Council, which 
is generally held once 
a month at full moon, 
in order that the other 
wolves may identify 
them. After that in- 
spection the cubs are 
free to run where they 
please, and until they 
have killed their first 
buck no excuse is ac- 
cepted if a grown wolf 
of the Pack kills one 
of them. The punish- 
ment is death where 
the murderer can be 
found ; and if you 
think for a minute you 
will see that this must 
be so. 

Father Wolf waited 
till his cubs could run 
a little, and then on 
the night of the Pack 
Meetingtook them and 
Mowgli and Mother 
Wolf to the Council 
Rock — a hilltop cov- 
ered with stones and 
boulders where a hun- 
dred wolves could 
hide. Akela, the great 
gray Lone Wolf, who 
led all the Pack by strength and cunning, lay 
out at full length on his rock, and below him 
sat forty or more wolves of every size and color, 
from badger-colored veterans who could handle 
a buck alone, to young black three-year-olds 
who thought they could. The Lone Wolf had 
led them for a year now. He had fallen twice 
into a wolf-trap in his youth, and once he had 

been beaten and left for dead ; so he knew the 
manners and customs of men. There was 
very little talking at the rock. The cubs tum- 
bled over each other in the center of the circle 
where their mothers and fathers sat, and now 

(SEE PAGE 201.) 

and again a senior wolf would go quietly up 
to a cub, look at him carefully, and return 
to his place on noiseless feet. Sometimes a 
mother would push her cub well out into the 
moonlight, to be sure that he had not been 
overlooked. Akela from his rock would cry : 
" Ye know the Law — ye know the Law. Look 
well, O Wolves ! " and the anxious mothers 




would take up the call : " Look — look well, 
O Wolves!" 

At last — and Mother Wolf's neck-bristles 
lifted as the time came — Father Wolf pushed 
" Mowgli the Frog," as they called him, into 
the center, where he sat laughing and play- 
ing with some pebbles that glistened in the 

Akela never raised his head from his paws, 

is any dispute as to the right of a cub to be ac- 
cepted by the Pack, he must be spoken for by 
at least two members of the Pack who are not 
his father and mother. 

•• Who speaks for this cub ? " said Akela. 
" Among the Free People who speaks ? " 
There was no answer, and Mother Wolf got 
ready for what she knew would be her last 
fight, if things came to fighting. 


but went on with the monotonous cry : " Look 
well ! " A muffled roar came up from behind 
the rocks — the voice of Shere Khan crying : 
" The cub is mine. Give him to me. What have 
the Free People to do with a man's cub ? " 
Akela never even twitched his ears : all he said 
was : " Look well, O Wolves ! What have the 
Free People to do with the orders of any save 
the Free People ? Look well ! " 

There was a chorus of deep growls, and a 
young wolf in his fourth year flung back Shere 
Khan's question to Akela : " What have the 
Free People to do with a man's cub ? " Now 
the Law of the Jungle lays down that if there 

Then the only other creature who is allowed 
at the Pack Council — Baloo, the sleepy brown 
bear who teaches the wolf cubs the Law of the 
Jungle : old Baloo, who can come and go 
where he pleases because he eats only nuts and 
roots and honey — rose up on his hind quarters 
and grunted. 

" The man's cub — the man's cub ? " he said. 
" / speak for the man's cub. There is no harm 
in a man's cub. I have no gift of words, but I 
speak the truth. Let him run with the Pack, 
and be entered with the others. I myself will 
teach him." 

" We need yet another," said Akela. " Baloo 

i8 94 .: 



has spoken, and he is our teacher for the young 
cubs. Who speaks beside Baloo ? " 

A black shadow dropped down into the cir- 
cle. It was Bagheera the Black Panther, inky 
black all over, but with the panther-markings 
showing up in certain lights like the pattern of 
watered silk. Everybody knew Bagheera, and 
nobody cared to cross his path; for he was as 
cunning as Tabaqui, as bold as the wild buffalo, 
and as reckless as the wounded elephant. But 
he had a voice as soft as wild honey dripping 
from a tree, and a skin softer than down. 

" O Akela, and ye the Free People," he 
purred, " I have no right in your assembly; but 
the Law of the Jungle says that if there is 
a doubt which is not a killing matter in regard 
to a new cub, the life of that cub may be 
bought at a price. And the Law does not say 
who may or may not pay that price. Am I 
right ? " 

" Good ! good ! " said the young wolves, who 
are always hungry. " Listen to Bagheera. The 
cub can be bought for a price. It is the Law." 

" Knowing that I have no right to speak 
here, I ask your leave." 

" Speak then," cried twenty voices. 

" To kill a naked cub is shame. Besides, he 
may make better sport for you when he is 
grown. Baloo has spoken in his behalf. Now 
to Baloo's word I will add one bull, and a fat 
one, newly killed, not half a mile from here, if 
ye will accept the man's cub according to the 
Law. Is it difficult?" 

There was a clamor of scores of voices, say- 
ing : " What matter ? He will die in the winter 
rains. He will scorch in the sun. What harm 
can a naked frog do us ? Let him run with the 
Pack. Where is the bull, Bagheera ? Let him 
be accepted." And then came Akela's deep bay 
crying : " Look well — look well, O Wolves ! " 

Mowgli was still deeply interested in the 
pebbles, and he did not notice when the wolves 
came and looked at him one by one. At last 
they all went down the hill for the dead bull, 
and only Akela, Bagheera, Baloo, and Mowgli's 
own wolves were left. Shere Khan roared still 
in the night, for he was very angry that Mowgli 
had not been handed over to him. 

" Aye, roar well," said Bagheera, under his 
whiskers. " For the time comes when this naked 
Vol. XXL— 26. 

thing will make thee roar to another tune, or I 
know nothing of man." 

" It was well done," said Akela. " Men and 
their cubs are very wise. He may be a help in 

" Truly, a help in time of need ; for none 
can hope to lead the Pack forever," said 

Akela said nothing. He was thinking of the 
time that comes to every leader of every pack 
when his strength goes from him and he gets 
feebler and feebler, till at last he is killed by the 
wolves and a new leader comes up — to be 
killed in his turn. 

" Take him away," he said to Father Wolf, 
"and train him as befits one of the Free People." 

And that is how Mowgli was entered into 
the Seeonee wolf-pack for the price of a bull 
and on Baloo's good word. 

Now you must be content to skip ten or 
eleven whole years, and only guess at all the 
wonderful life that Mowgli led among the 
wolves, because if it were written out it would 
fill ever so many books. He grew up with the 
cubs, though they of course were grown wolves 
almost before he was a child, and Father Wolf 
taught him his business and the meaning of 
things in the jungle till every rustle in the 
grass, every breath of the warm night air, 
every note of the owls above his head, every 
scratch of a bat's claws as it roosted for a while 
in a tree, and every splash of every little fish 
jumping in a pool, meant just as much to him 
as the work of his office means to a business 
man. When he was not learning he sat out 
in the sun and slept, and ate and went to sleep 
again; when he felt dirty or hot he swam in 
the forest pools ; and when he wanted honey 
(Baloo told him that honey and nuts were just 
as pleasant to eat as raw meat) he climbed up 
for it, and that Bagheera showed him how to 
do. Bagheera would lie out on a branch and 
call, " Come along, Little Brother," and at first 
Mowgli would cling like the sloth, but after- 
ward he would fling himself through the 
branches almost as boldly as the gray ape. 
He took his place at the Council Rock, too, 
when the Pack met, and there he discovered 
that if he stared hard at any wolf, the wolf 




would be forced to drop his eyes, and so he 
used to stare for fun. At other times he would 
pick the long thorns out of the pads of his 
friends, for wolves suffer terribly from thorns 
and burs in their coats. He would go down 
the hillside into the cultivated lands by night, 
and look very curiously at the villagers in their 
huts, but he had a mistrust of men because 
Bagheera showed him a square box with a drop- 
gate so cunningly hidden in the jungle that he 
nearly walked into it, and told him that it was 
a trap. He loved better than anything else to 
go with Bagheera into the dark warm heart of 
the forest, to sleep all through the drowsy day 
and at night see how Bagheera did his killing. 
Bagheera killed right and left as he felt hungry, 
and so did Mowgli — with one exception. As 
soon as he was old enough to understand things, 
Bagheera told him that he must neve* touch 
cattle because he had been bought into the 
Pack at the price of a bull's life. " All the 
jungle is thine," said Bagheera, " and thou 
canst kill everything that thou art strong 
enough to kill ; but for the sake of the bull 
that bought thee thou must never kill or eat 
any cattle young or old. That is the Law of 
the Jungle." Mowgli obeyed faithfully. 

And he grew and grew strong as a boy must 
grow who does not know that he is learning 
any lessons, and who has nothing in the world 
to think of except things to eat. 

Mother Wolf told him once or twice that 
Shere Khan was not a creature to be trusted, 
and that some day he must kill Shere Khan; 
but though a young wolf would have remem- 
bered that advice every hour, Mowgli forgot it 
because he was only a boy — though he would 
have called himself a wolf if he had been able 
to speak in any human tongue. 

Shere Khan was always crossing his path in 
the jungle, for as Akela grew older and feebler 
the lame tiger had come to be great friends 
with the younger wolves of the Pack, who fol- 
lowed him for scraps, a thing Akela would 
never have allowed if he had dared to push 
his authority to the proper bounds. Then 
Shere Khan would flatter them and wonder 
that such fine young hunters were content to 
be led by a dying wolf and a man's cub. 
" They tell me," Shere Khan would say, " that 

at Council ye dare not look him between the 
eyes"; and the young wolves would growl and 

Bagheera, who had eyes and ears every- 
where, knew something of this, and once or 
twice he told Mowgli in so many words that 
Shere Khan would kill him some day; and 
Mowgli would laugh and answer, " I have the 
Pack and I have thee ; and Baloo, though he 
is so lazy, might strike a blow or two for my 
sake. Why should I be afraid ? " 

It was one very warm day that a new notion 
came to Bagheera — bom of something that he 
had heard. Perhaps Ikki the Porcupine had 
told him; but he said to Mowgli when they 
were deep in the jungle, as the boy lay with 
his head on Bagheera's beautiful black skin : 
" Little Brother, how often have I told thee 
that Shere Khan is thy enemy ? " 

"As many times as there are nuts on that 
palm," said Mowgli, who, naturally, could not 
count. " What of it ? I am sleepy, Bagheera, 
and Shere Khan is all long tail and loud talk — 
like Mao the Peacock." 

" But this is no time for sleeping. Baloo 
knows it; I know it; the Pack know it; and 
even the foolish, foolish deer know. Tabaqui 
has told thee, too." 

" Ho ! Ho ! " said Mowgli. " Tabaqui came 
to me not long ago with some rude talk that I 
was a naked man's cub and not fit to dig pig- 
nuts ; but I caught Tabaqui by the tail and 
swung him twice against a palm-tree to teach 
him better manners." 

" That was foolishness; for though Tabaqui 
is a mischief-maker, he would have told thee of 
something that concerned thee closely. Open 
those eyes, Little Brother. Shere Khan dares 
not kill thee in the jungle ; but remember, Akela 
is very old, and soon the day comes when he 
cannot kill his buck, and then he will be leader 
no more. Many of the wolves that looked thee 
over when thou wast brought to the Council 
first are old too, and the young wolves believe, 
as Shere Khan has taught them, that a man-cub 
has no place with the Pack. In a little time 
thou wilt be a man." 

" And what is a man that he should not 
run with his brothers ? " said Mowgli. " I was 
born in the jungle. I have obeyed the Law of 



the Jungle, and there is no wolf of ours from 
whose paws I have not pulled a thorn. Surely 
they are my brothers ! " 

Bagheera stretched himself at full length 
and half shut his eyes. " Little Brother," said 
he, " feel under my jaw." 

Mowgli put up his strong brown hand, and 
just under Bagheera's silky chin, where the 
giant rolling muscles were all hid by the glossy 
hair, he came upon a little bald spot. 

" There is no one in the jungle that knows 
that I, Bagheera, carry that mark— the mark 
of the collar; and yet, Little Brother, I was 
born among men, and it was among men that 
my mother died — in the cages of the King's 
Palace at Oodeypore. It was because of this 
that I paid the price for thee at the Council 
when thou wast a little naked cub. Yes, I too 
was born among men. I had never seen the 
jungle. They fed me behind bars from an iron 
pan till one night I felt that I was Bagheera — 
the Panther — and no man's plaything, and I 
broke the silly lock with one blow of my paw 
and came away; and because I had learned 
the ways of men, I became more terrible in the 
jungle than Shere Khan. Is it not so ? " 

" Yes," said Mowgli ; " all the jungle fear 
Bagheera — all except Mowgli." 

" Oh, thou art a man's cub," said the Black 
Panther, very tenderly; " and even as I returned 
to my jungle, so thou must go back to men at 
last, — to the men who are thy brothers, — if 
thou art not killed in the Council." 

" But why — but why should any wish to kill 
me ? " said Mowgli. 

" Look at me," said Bagheera; and Mowgli 
looked at him steadily between the eyes. The 
big panther turned his head away, in half a 

" That is why," he said, shifting his paw on 
the leaves. " Not even I can look thee be- 
tween the eyes, and I was born among men, 
and I love thee, Little Brother. The others 
they hate thee because their eyes cannot meet 
thine ; because thou art wise ; because thou 
hast pulled out thorns from their feet — because 
thou art a man." 

" I did not know these things," said Mowgli, 
sullenly; and he frowned under his heavy black 

" What is the Law of the Jungle ? Strike 
first and then give tongue. By thy very care- 
lessness they know that thou art a man. But be 
wise. It is in my heart that when Akela misses 
his next kill, — and at each hunt it costs him 
more to pin the buck, — the Pack will turn 
against him and against thee. They will hold 
a jungle Council at the Rock, and then — and 
then — I have it!" said Bagheera, leaping up. 
" Go thou down quickly to the men's huts in 
the valley, and take some of the Red Flower 
which they grow there, so that when the time 
comes thou mayest have even a stronger friend 
than I or Baloo or those of the Pack that love 
thee. Get the Red Flower." 

By Red Flower Bagheera meant fire, only 
no creature in the jungle will call fire by its 
proper name. Every beast lives in deadly fear 
of it, and invents a hundred ways of describ- 
ing it. 

" The Red Flower ? " said Mowgli. " That 
grows outside their huts in the twilight. I will 
get some." 

" There speaks the man's cub," said Ba- 
gheera, proudly. " Remember that it grows in 
little pots. Get one swiftly, and keep it by 
thee for time of need." 

"Good!" said Mowgli. "I go. But art 
thou sure, O my Bagheera " — he slipped his 
arm round the splendid neck, and looked deep 
into the big eyes — "art thou sure that all this 
is Shere Khan's doing ? " 

" By the broken lock that freed me, I am 
sure, Little Brother." 

" Then, by the bull that bought me, I will 
pay Shere Khan full tale for this, and it may be 
a little over," said Mowgli; and he bounded 

" That is a man. That is all a man," said 
Bagheera to himself, lying down again. " Oh, 
Shere Khan, never was a blacker hunting than 
that frog-hunt of thine ten years ago ! " 

Mowgli was far and far through the forest, 
running hard, and his heart was hot in him. 
He came to the cave as the evening mist rose, 
and drew breath, and looked down the valley. 
The cubs were out, but Mother Wolf, at the 
back of the cave, knew by his breathing that 
something was troubling her frog. 

" What is it, Son ? " she said. 




" Some bat's chatter of Shere Khan," he 
called back. " I hunt among the plowed 
fields to-night " ; and he plunged downward 
through the bushes, to the stream at the bot- 
tom of the valley. There he checked, for he 
heard the yell of the Pack hunting, heard the 
bellow of a hunted Sambhur, and the snort as 
the buck turned at bay. Then there were 
wicked, bitter howls from the young wolves: 
" Akela ! Akela ! Let the Lone Wolf show 
his strength. Room for the leader of the Pack ! 
Spring, Akela ! " 

The Lone Wolf must have sprung and 
missed his hold, for Mowgli heard the snap 
of his teeth and then a yelp as the Sambhur 
knocked him over with his fore foot. 

He did not wait for anything more, but 
dashed on ; and the yells grew fainter behind 
him as he ran into the crop-lands where the 
villagers lived. 

" Bagheera spoke truth," he panted, as he 
nestled down in some cattle-fodder by the win- 
dow of a hut. " To-morrow is one day both 
for Akela and for me." 

Then he pressed his face close to the win- 
dow and watched the fire on the hearth. He 
saw the husbandman's wife get up and feed it 
in the night with black lumps ; and when the 
morning came and the mists were all white 
and cold, he saw the man's child pick up a 
wicker pot plastered inside with earth, fill it 
with lumps of red-hot charcoal, put it under 
his blanket, and go out to tend the cows in the 

" Is that all ? " said Mowgli. " If a cub can 
do it, there is nothing to fear"; so he strode 
round the corner and met the boy, took the 
pot from his hand, and disappeared into the 
mist while the boy howled with fear. 

" They are very like me," said Mowgli, blow- 
ing into the pot, as he had seen the woman do. 
" This thing will die if I do not give it things 
to eat " ; and he dropped twigs and dried bark 
on the red stuff. Half-way up the hill he met 
Bagheera with the morning dew shining like 
moonstones on his coat. 

"Akela has missed," said the Panther. 
" They would have killed him last night, but 
they needed thee also. They were looking for 
thee on the hill." 

" I was among the ploughed lands. I am 
ready. See ! " Mowgli held up the fire-pot. 

"Good! Now, I have seen men thrust a dry 
branch into that stuff, and presently the Red 
Flower blossomed at the end of it. Art thou 
not afraid ? " 

" No. Why should I fear ? I remember 
now — if it is not a dream — how, before I 
was a Wolf, I lay beside the Red Flower, and 
it was warm and pleasant." 

All that day Mowgli sat in the cave tending 
his fire-pot and dipping dry branches into it to 
see how they looked. He found a branch that 
satisfied him, and in the evening when Tabaqui 
came to the cave and told him rudely enough 
that he was wanted at the Council Rock, he 
laughed till Tabaqui ran away. Then Mowgli 
went to the Council, still laughing. 

Akela the Lone Wolf lay by the side of his 
rock as a sign that the leadership of the Pack 
was open, and Shere Khan with his following of 
scrap-fed wolves walked to and fro openly be- 
ing flattered. Bagheera lay close to Mowgli, 
and the fire-pot was between Mowgli's knees. 
When they were all gathered together, Shere 
Khan began to speak — a thing he would never 
have dared to do when Akela was in his prime. 

" He has no right," whispered Bagheera. 
" Say so. He is a dog's son. He will be 

Mowgli sprang to his feet. " Free Peo- 
ple," he cried, " does Shere Khan lead the 
Pack ? What has a tiger to do with our lead- 
ership ? " 

" Seeing that the leadership is yet open, and 
being asked to speak — " Shere Khan began. 

"By whom?" said Mowgli. "Are we all 
jackals, to fawn on this cattle-butcher ? The 
leadership of the Pack is with the Pack alone." 

There were yells of " Silence, thou man's 
cub ! " " Let him speak. He has kept our 
Law " ; and at last the seniors of the Pack 
thundered : " Let the Dead Wolf speak." 
When a leader of the Pack has missed his kill, 
he is called the Dead Wolf as long as he lives, 
which is not long. 

Akela raised his old head wearily : 

" Free People, and ye too, jackals of Shere 
Khan, for twelve seasons I have led ye to and 
from the kill, and in all that time not one 



has been trapped or maimed. Now I have 
missed my kill. Ye know how that plot was 
made. Ye know how ye brought me up to an 
untried buck to make my weakness known. It 
was cleverly done. Your right is to kill me 
here on the Council Rock, now. Therefore, I 
ask, who comes to make an end of the Lone 
Wolf? For it is my right, by the Law of the 
Jungle, that ye come one by one." 

There was a long hush, for no single wolf 
cared to fight Akela to the death. Then Shere 
Khan roared : " Bah ! what have we to do 
with this toothless fool ? He is doomed to die ! 
It is the man-cub who has lived too long. Free 
People, he was my meat from the first. Give 
him to me. I am weary of this man- wolf folly. 
He has troubled the jungle for ten seasons. 
Give me the man-cub, or I will hunt here 
always, and not give you one bone. He is a 
man, a man's child, and from the marrow of my 
bones I hate him ! " 

Then more than half the Pack yelled : " A 
man ! a man ! What has a man to do with 
us ? Let him go to his own place." 

" And turn all the people of the villages 
against us?" thundered Shere Khan. "No; 
give him to me. He is a man, and none of us 
can look him between the eyes." 

Akela lifted his head again, and said : " He 
has eaten our food. He has slept with us. He 
has driven game for us. He has broken no 
word of the Law of the Jungle." 

"Also, I paid for him with a bull when he 
was accepted. The worth of a bull is little, but 
Bagheera's honor is something that he will per- 
haps fight for," said Bagheera, in his gentlest 

" A bull paid ten years ago ! " the Pack 
snarled. " What do we care for bones ten 
years old ? " 

" Or for a pledge ? " said Bagheera, his white 
teeth bared under his lip. " Well are ye called 
the Free People ! " 

" No man's cub can run with the people of 
the jungle," roared Shere Khan. " Give him 
to me ! " 

" He is our brother in all but blood," Akela 
went on ; " and ye would kill him here ! In 
truth, I have lived too long. Some of ye are 
eaters of cattle, and of others I have heard that 

under Shere Khan's teaching ye go by dark 
night and snatch children from the villager's 
door-step. Therefore I know ye to be cowards, 
and it is to cowards I speak. It is certain that I 
must die, and my life is of no worth, or I would 
offer that in the man-cub's place. But for the 
sake of the Honor of the Pack, — a little matter 
that by being without a leader ye have forgot- 
ten, — I promise that if ye let the man-cub go 
to his own place, I will not, when my time 
comes to die, bare one tooth against ye. I will 
die without fighting. That will at least save 
the Pack three lives. More I cannot do ; but 
if ye will, I can save ye the shame that comes 
of killing a brother against whom there is no 
fault, — a brother spoken for and bought into 
the Pack according to the Law of the Jungle." 

" He is a man — a man — a man ! " snarled 
the Pack ; and most of the wolves began to 
gather round Shere Khan, whose tail was be- 
ginning to switch. 

" Now the business is in thy hands," said 
Bagheera to Mowgli. " We can do no more 
except fight." 

Mowgli stood upright — the fire-pot in his 
hands. Then he stretched out his arms, and 
yawned in the face of the Council; but he was 
furious with rage and sorrow, for, wolf-like, the 
wolves had never told him how they hated him. 
" Listen you ! " he cried. " There is no need for 
this dog's jabber. Ye have told me so often to- 
night that I am a man (and indeed I would 
have been a wolf with you to my life's end), that 
I feel your words are true. So I do not call 
ye my brothers any more, but sag [dogs], as a 
man should. What ye will do, and what ye 
will not do, is not yours to say. That matter is 
with me j and that we may see the matter more 
plainly, I, the man, have brought here a little of 
the Red Flower which ye, dogs, fear." 

He flung the fire-pot on the ground, and 
some of the red coals lit a tuft of dried moss 
that flared up, as all the Council drew back 
in terror before the leaping flames. 

Mowgli thrust his dead branch into the fire 
till the twigs lit and crackled, and whirled it 
above his head among the cowering wolves. 

"Thou art the master," said Bagheera, in an 
undertone. " Save Akela from the death. He 
was ever thy friend." 



Akela, the grim old wolf who had never 
asked for mercy in his life, gave one piteous 
look at Mowgli as the boy stood all naked, 
his long black hair tossing over his shoulders in 
the light of the blazing branch that made the 
shadows jump and quiver. 

"Good!" said Mowgli, staring around slowly. 
" I see that ye are dogs. I go from you to my 
own people — if they be my own people. The 
jungle is shut to me, and I must forget your 
talk and your companionship; but I will be 
more merciful than ye are. Because I was all 
but your brother in blood, I promise that when 
I am a man among men I will not betray ye 
to men as ye have betrayed me." He kicked 
the fire with his foot, and the sparks flew up. 
" There shall be no war between any of us in 
the Pack. But here is a debt to pay before I 
go." He strode forward to where Shere Khan 
sat blinking stupidly at the flames, and caught 
him by the tuft on his chin. Bagheera followed 
in case of accidents. " Up, dog ! " Mowgli 
cried. " Up, when a man speaks, or I will set 
that coat ablaze ! " 

Shere Khan's ears lay flat back on his head, 
and he shut his eyes, for the blazing branch was 
very near. 

" This cattle-killer said he would kill me in 
the Council because he had not killed me when 
I was a cub. Thus and thus, then, do we beat 
dogs when we are men. Stir a whisker, Lungri, 
and I ram the Red Flower down thy gullet!" 
He beat Shere Khan over the head with the 
branch, and the tiger whimpered and whined 
in an agony of fear. 

"Pah! Singed jungle-cat — go now! But 
remember when next I come to the Council 
Rock, as a man should come, it will be with 
Shere Khan's hide on my head. For the rest, 
Akela goes free to live as he pleases. Ye will 
not kill him, because that is not my will. Nor 
do I think that ye will sit here any longer, 
lolling out your tongues as though ye were 
somebodies, instead of dogs whom I drive out 
— thus ! Go ! " The fire was burning furiously 
at the end of the branch, and Mowgli struck 
right and left round the circle, and the wolves 

ran howling with the sparks burning their fur. 
At last there were only Akela, Bagheera, and 
perhaps ten wolves that had taken Mowgli's 
part. Then something began to hurt Mowgli 
inside him, as he had never been hurt in his life 
before, and he caught his breath and sobbed, 
and the tears ran down his face. 

"What is it? What is it? " he said. " I do 
not wish to leave the jungle, and I do not know 
what this is. Am I dying, Bagheera ? " 

" No, Little Brother. That is only tears such 
as men use," said Bagheera. " Now I know 
thou art a man, and a man's cub no longer. 
The jungle is shut indeed to thee henceforward. 
Let them fall, Mowgli. They are only tears." 
So Mowgli sat and cried as though his heart 
would break ; and he had never cried in all his 
life before. 

" Now," he said, " I will go to men. But 
first I must say farewell to my mother"; and he 
went to the cave where she lived with Father 
Wolf, and he cried on her coat, while the four 
cubs howled miserably. 

"Ye will not forget me? " said Mowgli. 

" Never while we can follow a trail," said the 
cubs. " Come to the foot of the hill when thou 
art a man, and we will talk to thee ; and we will 
come into the crop-lands to play with thee by 

"Come soon!" said Father Wolf. "Oh, wise 
little frog, come again soon ; for we be old, thy 
mother and I." 

"Come soon," said Mother Wolf, "little 
naked son of mine; for, listen, child of man, I 
loved thee more than ever I loved my cubs." 

" I will surely come," said Mowgli ; " and 
when I come it will be to lay out Shere Khan's 
hide upon the Council Rock: Do not forget me ! 
Tell them in the jungle never to forget me ! " 

The dawn was beginning to break when 
Mowgli went down the hillside alone to the 
crops, to meet those mysterious things that are 
called men. 

Next month I will tell you how Mowgli kept 
his word, and laid down Shere Khan's hide on 
the Council Rock. 


By Frank R. Stockton. 


The city of St. Augustine, on the eastern 
coast of Florida, stands in one respect pre- 
eminent among ail the cities of the United 
States — it is truly an old city. It has many 
other claims to consideration, but these are 

the United States a city whose buildings and 
monuments connect the Middle Ages with the 
present time, may be considered to have a 
good claim to be called ancient. 

After visiting some of our great towns, where 

shared with other cities. But in regard to age the noise and bustle of traffic, the fire and din of 
it is the one member of its class. manufactures, the long lines of buildings stretch- 
Compared with the cities of the Old World, ing out in every direction, with all the other 
St. Augustine would be called young; but in evidences of active enterprise, proclaim these 

* This picture, and those of the oldest house in St. Augustine, Charlotte Street, and the Ponce de Leon and 
Alcazar Hotels, are copied by kind permission, from " Florida and St. Augustine," published by Messrs. Carrere 
& Hastings, architects, New York. 




cities creations of the present day and hour, it 
is refreshing and restful to go down to quiet St. 
Augustine, where one may gaze into the dry 
moat of a fort of medieval architecture, walk 
over its drawbridges, pass under its portcullis, 
and go down into its dungeons; and where in 
soft semi-tropical air the visitor may wander 
through narrow streets resembling those of 
Spain and Italy, where the houses on each side 

mitted many atrocities ; and, half a century after 
Drake, the celebrated English buccaneer Cap- 
tain John Davis captured and plundered the 

Much later, General Moore, Governor of 
South Carolina, took the town and held it for 
three months, but was never able to take the 
fort. In 1740 General Oglethorpe, another 
Governor of South Carolina, attacked St. Au- 


lean over toward one another so that neighbors 
might almost shake hands from their upper 
windows, and are surrounded by orange-groves 
and rose-gardens which blossom all the year. 

St. Augustine was founded in 1565 by Pedro 
Menendez de Aviles, who was then Governor of 
Florida. Here he built a wooden fort which 
was afterward replaced by the massive edifice 
which still exists. St. Augustine needed de- 
fenses, for she passed through long periods of 
war, and many battles were fought for her pos- 
session. At first there were wars in Florida be- 
tween the Spanish and the French ; and when 
the town was just twenty-one years old, Sir 
Francis Drake captured the fort, carrying off 
two thousand pounds in money, and burned 
half the buildings in the town. Then the In- 
dians frequently attacked the place and com- 

gustine, planting batteries on the island oppo- 
site, and maintaining a siege for forty days ; but 
he was obliged to withdraw. Three years 
later he made another attack, but succeeded no 
better. Even now one can see the dents and 
holes made in the fort by the cannon-balls fired 
in these sieges. 

In 1819 Florida was ceded to our Govern- 
ment, and St. Augustine became a city of the 
United States. 

Approaching St. Augustine from the sea, the 
town looks as if it might be a port on the 
Mediterranean coast. The light-colored walls 
of its houses and gardens, masses of rich green 
foliage cropping up everywhere in the town 
and about it, the stern old fortress to the north 
of it, and the white and glittering sands of the 
island which separates its harbor from the sea, 




make it very unlike the ordinary idea of an 
American town. 

In the center of the city is a large open 
square called the Plaza de la Constitution, sur- 
rounded by beautiful live-oaks and pride-of- 
India trees, with their long, hanging mosses and 
sweet-smelling blossoms. 

Most of the streets are narrow, without side- 
walks, and from the high-walled gardens comes 
the smell of orange-blossoms, while roses and 
other flowers bloom everywhere and all the time. 

At the southern end of the town stands the 
old Convent of St. Francis, which is now used 
as barracks for United States soldiers. 

The old palace of the governor still stands, 
but now contains the post-office and other 
public buildings. There was once a wall 
around the town, and one of the gates of this 
still remains. There is a tower on each side 
of the gateway, and the sentry-boxes, and loop- 
holes through which the guards used to look 
out for Indians and other enemies, are still 
there. Along the harbor edge of the town is a 
wall nearly a mile long, built at great expense 
by the United States Government as a defense 
against the encroachments of the sea. This is 
called the sea wall, and its smooth top, four 
feet wide, is a favorite promenade. Walking 
Vol. XXI.— 27-28. 

northward on this wall, or on the street beside 
it, if you like that better, we reach, a little out- 
side of the town, what I consider the most in- 
teresting feature of St. Augustine. This is the 
old fort of San Marco, which, since it came into 
the possession of our government, has been re- 
named Fort Marion. 





The old fort is not a ruin, but is one of the ner was a watch-tower, three of which remain ; 
best-preserved specimens of the style of fortifi- and into these one can mount, and through the 
cation of the Middle Ages. We cross the moat narrow slits of windows get a view of what is 

going on outside with- 



and the drawbridge, and over the stone door- 
way we see the Spanish coat-of-arms, and under it 
an inscription stating that the fort was built dur- 
ing the reign of King Ferdinand VI. of Spain, 
with the names and titles of the dons who super- 
intended the work. It took sixty years to build 
the fort, and nearly all the work was done by 
Indians who were captured and made slaves 
for the purpose. Passing through the solemn 
entrance, we come to an open square sur- 
rounded by the buildings and walls of the fort, 
which, in all, cover about an acre of ground. 
On the right is an inclined plane which serves 
as a stairway to reach the ramparts where the 
cannon were placed. The terre-plein, or wide, 
flat surface of the ramparts, makes a fine walk 
around the four sides of the fort from which we 
can have views of land and sea. At each cor- 

out being seen him- 
self. At one end of 
thefortis the old Span- 
ish chapel, and all 
around the square are 
the rooms that used to 
be occupied by the of- 
ficers and the soldiers. 
Into the chapel the 
condemned prisoners 
used to be taken to 
hear their last mass 
before being marched 
up to the north ram- 
part and shot. 

Down in the foun- 
dations of the fort are 
dungeons into which 
no ray of sunlight can 
enter. After the fort 
came into the pos- 
session of our gov- 
ernment, a human 
skeleton was found in 
one of the dungeons, 
chained to a staple in 
the wall ; and in an- 
other dungeon, with- 
out door or window and completely walled up, 
there were discovered two iron cages which had 
hung from the walls, each containing a human 
skeleton. The supports of one of the cages had 
rusted away, and it had fallen down, but the 
other was still in its place. A great many ro- 
mantic stories were told about these skeletons, 
and by some persons it was supposed that they 
were the remains of certain heirs to the Spanish 
throne whose existence it was desirable ut- 
terly to blot out. One of the skeletons was that 
of a woman or girl. The cages and skeletons 
have been removed, but we can go into the 
dungeons if we take a lantern. Anything 
darker or blacker than these underground cells 
cannot be imagined. I have seen dungeons 
in Europe, but none of them were so hope- 
lessly awful as these. 


21 I 

In another part of the fort is a cell in which Os- 
ceola, the celebrated Indian chief, was once im- 
prisoned, in company with another chief named 
Wild Cat. There is a little window near the top 
of the cell, protected by several iron bars ; and 
it is said that Wild Cat starved himself until he 
was thin enough to squeeze between two of the 

/,, ' 


of Indian prisoners who had been captured in 
the far West. Some of them were notorious for 
their cruelties and crimes, but in the fort they 
were all peaceable enough. It was one of these 
Indians, a big, ugly fellow, who lighted me into 
the dungeon of the skeleton-cages. 

This fort, which is in many respects like a 
great castle, is not built of ordinary stone, but 
of coquina, a substance formed by the accumu- 
lation of sea-shells which, in the course of ages, 
have united into a mass like solid rock. On 
Anastasia Island, opposite St. Augustine, there 
are great quarries from which the coquina stone 
is taken, and of this material nearly the whole 
town is built. It is interesting to visit one of 
these quarries, and observe how in the upper 
strata the shells are quite distinct, while the 


bars, having first mounted on the shoulders of 
Osceola in order to reach them. Whether the 
starving part of the story is true or not, it is 
certain that he escaped through the window. 
When I last visited San Marco, it was full 

lower we look down the more and more solid 
and stone-like the masses become. 

The harbor of St. Augustine is a portion of 
the sea cut off by Anastasia Island. South- 
ward, the Matanzas River extends from the 

2 12 



harbor; and in all these waters there is fine 
fishing. On the sea-beaches there is good 
bathing, for the water is not too cold even in 
winter. St. Augustine is an attractive place 
at all seasons of the year, and its three superb 
hotels — the Ponce de Leon, the Alcazar, and 
the Cordova — are among the most celebrated 
in America. In winter people come down from 
the North because its air is so warm and pleas- 
ant, and in summer people from the Southern 
States visit it because its sea-breezes are so 
cool and refreshing. It is a favorable resort 
for yachts, and in its wide, smooth harbor may 
often be seen some of the most beautiful vessels 
of this class. 

town by a little railroad. At Tocoi, the river 
terminus of the railroad, people who wish to 
penetrate into the heart of Florida, with its 
great forests and lakes and beautiful streams, 
can take a steamer and sail up the St. John's, 
which, by the way, flows northward some two 
hundred miles. In some parts the river is six 
miles wide, resembling a lake, and in its narrow 
portions the shores are very beautiful. 

About forty miles above Tocoi the Ockla- 
waha River runs into the St. John's, and there 
are few visitors to St. Augustine who do not 
desire to take a trip up the little river which is 
in many respects the most romantic and beau- 
tiful stream in the world. At Tocoi we take a 


St. Augustine is not only a delightful place 
in which to stay, but it is easy to reach from 
there some points which are of great interest to 
travelers. The great St. John's River is only 
fourteen miles away, and is connected with the 

small steamboat which looks like a very narrow 
two-story house mounted upon a little canal- 
boat, and in this we go up the St. John's until we 
see on the right an opening in the tree-covered 
banks. This is the mouth of the Ocklawaha, 

i8 9 4-] 



and, entering it, we steam directly into the heart long distances there is no solid ground on 

of one of the great forests of Florida. The either side of the river, the water penetrating 

stream is very narrow, and full of turns and far into the forest and forming swamps. Near 

bends. Indeed, its name, which is Indian, signi- the edge of the river we frequently see myriads 

fies " crooked water " ; and sometimes the bow of tree-roots bent almost at right angles, giving 


of the boat has even to be pushed around by men 
with long poles. Of course we go slowly, but no 
one objects to that, for we do not wish to hurry 
through such scenery as this. On each side 
we see green trees with their thick evergreen 
foliage, with vines and moss hanging from 
many of them, and the ground beneath covered 
with the luxuriant shrubbery which grows in 
these warm regions. 

Sometimes we can see through the trees into 
the distant recesses of the forest, and then again 
we are shut in by walls of foliage. Now and 
then we may see an alligator sunning himself 
on a log, and as our boat approaches he rolls 
over into the water and plumps out of sight. 
Water-turkeys, whose bodies are concealed in 
the bushes, run out their long necks to look at 
us, presenting the appearance of snakes darting 
from between the leaves; while curlews, herons, 
and many other birds are seen on the banks 
and flying across the river. In some places 
the stream widens, and in the shallower por- 
tions near the banks grow many kinds of lilies, 
beautiful reeds, and other water-plants. For 

the trees the appearance of standing on spider- 
legs in the water. 

Sometimes the forest opens overhead, but 
nearly all the way we are covered by a roof 
of green, and at every turn appear new scenes 
of beauty and luxuriance. Occasionally the 
banks are moderately high, and we see long 
stretches of solid ground covered with verdure. 
There is one spot where two large trees stand, 
one on each bank, close to the water, and the 
distance between the two is so small that as 
our boat glides through this natural gateway 
there is scarcely a foot of room to spare on 
either side. 

Although the river is such a little one that 
we are apt to think all the time we are sailing 
on it that we must soon come to the end of 
its navigation, we go on more than a hundred 
miles before we come to the place where we 
stop and turn back. The trip up the Ockla- 
waha requires all the hours of a day and a 
great part of a night; and this night trip is 
like a journey through fairyland. On the high- 
est part of the boat is a great iron basket, into 



which, as soon as it becomes dark, are thrown 
quantities of pine-knots. These are lighted in 
order that the pilot may see how to steer. The 
blazing of the resinous fuel lights up the forest 
for long distances in every direction, and, as 
may easily be imagined, the effect is wonder- 
fully beautiful. When the fire blazes high the 
scene is like an illuminated lacework of tree- 
trunks, vines, leaves, and twigs, the smallest 
tendril shining out bright and distinct ; while 
through it all the river gleams like a band 
of glittering silver. Then, as the pine-knots 
gradually burn out, the illumination fades and 
fades away until we think the whole glorious 
scene is about to melt into nothing, when more 
sticks are thrown on. the light blazes up again, 
and we have before us a new scene with dif- 
ferent combinations of illuminated foliage and 

It often happens that during the night our 
little steamer crowds itself to one side of the 
river and stops. Then we may expect to see 
a splendid sight. Out of the dark depths of 
the forest comes a glowing, radiant apparition, 
small at first, but getting larger and larger until 
it moves down upon us like a tangle of moon 
and stars drifting through the trees. 

This is nothing but another little steamboat 
coming down the river with its lighted win- 
dows and decks, and its blazing basket of pine- 
knots. There is just room enough for her to 
squeeze past us, and then her radiance gradu- 
ally fades away in the darkness behind us. 

We travel thus, night and da}', until we 
reach Silver Springs, which is the end of our 
journey. This is a small lake so transparent 
that we can see down to the very bottom of it, 
and watch the turtles and fishes as they swim 
about. A silver coin or any small object 
thrown into the water may be distinctly seen 
lying on the white sand far beneath us. The 
land is high and dry about Silver Springs, and 
the passengers generally go on shore and stroll 
through the woods for an hour or two. Then 
we reembark and return to St. Augustine as 
we came. 

It must not be supposed that St. Augustine 

contains nothing but buildings of the olden 
time. Although many parts of the town are 
the same as they were in the old Spanish days, 
and although we may even find the descendants 
of the Minorcans who were once its principal 
citizens, the city now contains many handsome 
modern dwellings and hotels, some of which 
are exceptionally large and grand. Hundreds 
of people from the North have come down to 
this city of orange-scented air, eternal verdure, 
and invigorating sea-breezes, and have built 
handsome houses ; and during the winter there 
is a great deal of bustle and life in the narrow 
streets, in the Plaza, and on the sunny front of 
the town. Many of the shops are of a kind 
only to be found in semi-tropical towns by the 
sea, and have for sale bright-colored sea-beans, 
ornaments made of fish-scales of every variety 
of hue, corals, dried sea-ferns, and ever so 
many curiosities of the kind. We may even 
buy, if we choose, some little black alligators, 
alive and brisk and about a foot long. As to 
fruit, we can get here the best oranges in the 
world, which come from the Indian River in 
the southern part of Florida, and many sorts 
of tropical fruits that are seldom brought to 
Northern cities. 

If St. Augustine were like most American 
cities, and had been built by us or by our im- 
mediate ancestors, and presented an air of 
newness and progress and business prosperity, 
its delightful climate and its natural beauties 
would make it a most charming place to visit. 
But if we add to these attractions the fact that 
here alone we can see a bit of the old world 
without leaving our young Republic, and that 
in two or three days from the newness and 
busy din of New York or Chicago we may sit 
upon the ramparts of a medieval fort, and 
study the history of those olden days when 
the history of Spain, England, and France was 
also the history of this portion of our own 
land, — we cannot fail to admit that this little 
town of coquina walls and evergreen foliage 
and traditions of old-world antiquity occu- 
pies a position which is unique in the United 



" I don't see," said Santa Claus, as he took a 
last look around before going out to climb into 
the waiting sleigh, " why I should n't take my 
camera with me ! " 

So he picked it up and deposited it on the 
seat by his side. 

Swish ! — and away they went, but not so fast 
as usual, since "Dunder" and "Blitzen" were 
lame, and " Prancer" was not well. 

You know what the genial old gentleman did 

in the present-giving way, and I mean to tell 
you only about a few of the pictures he took. 
He spoiled a good many, for they were all 
taken by flash-light and in a hurry. But he got 
one good view of a village church near which 
lived a favorite little boy and his two sisters; 
and also a picture of their stockings hanging 
from the holly-covered mantel. 

At another house one little girl woke up 
when Santa Claus was taking her picture ; but 


she thought next morning it was only a dream, 
so Santa Claus did n't mind having been seen. 

A picture of some snowy chimneys, showing 
his path to and from the flue, and of the tired 
reindeer team, also proved successful ; but a 
very timid little girl, and a cross black cat 

who snarled at Santa Claus, were frightened 
by the flash-light, and so spoiled their pictures. 
Santa Claus took plenty of other pictures, but 
he does n't care to show any but these. Next 
year he hopes to be better skilled, for he says 
it is fun to take pictures on Christmas eve. 


By Clifford Howard. 


OT very far from 
the great Wash- 
ington Monu- 
I ment, although 
far enough 
away not to 
be hurt if it 
should ever 
tumble down, 
stands a large 
brick building 
the Govern- 
ment parks 
and the Poto- 
mac River. This 
is the Bureau of 
Engraving and Print- 
ing, the place in which 
Uncle Sam makes his 
greenbacks — his millions 
and millions of dollars' worth of paper money. 
For many years all of the paper money was 
engraved and printed by private corporations; 
but about thirty years ago it occurred to Uncle 
Sam that it would be a good idea to take part 
in the making of his money, and not allow out- 
siders to do it all alone. So, in spite of the 
objections of the bank-note companies, who 
felt that they were being deprived of a very 
good business, the work of printing the notes, 
bonds, and securities of the United States was 
divided between the Government and these 
private concerns. Uncle Sam printed the 
faces, and the bank-note companies took care 
of the backs. But Uncle Sam became so well 
pleased with his success as a printer, that by 
and by and little by little he appropriated 
more and more of the business to himself, 
until finally he had entire charge of it, and now 
the outside people do no more than manufac- 
ture the paper. At first the business was car- 

ried on in the basement of the Treasury Build- 
ing, but this was soon found to be too small a 
shop for so large an enterprise, and it was then 
transferred to the garret, where there was more 
room although not much more light. But at 
last it was found that so much space was 
needed that there was nothing to be done but 
to build a special building. So Congress ap- 
propriated three hundred thousand dollars for 
the construction of a suitable building, and 
about thirty thousand dollars to purchase a 
site upon which to locate the bureau. In due 
time a suitable site was chosen — the property 
at the corner of 14th and B streets, in the 
city of Washington. The land was bought in 
1878; and two years later the building was 

The average visitor to the Bureau of En- 
graving and Printing does not have an oppor- 
tunity of seeing very much, for Uncle Sam is 
very careful not to take any chances that 
might result in the loss of any of his valuable 
paper money. So the visitor must content 
himself with looking through cages and screens, 
behind which he sees men and women busy at 
work amid stacks of paper in all the stages of 
making, from the blank sheet to the printed 
notes; nor is he allowed to wander about 
wherever he likes, and to go peering into se- 
cret rooms ; but a guide must accompany all 
those who want to see this wonderful money- 
shop, and they may go only into such rooms 
and places as the guide is permitted to show 
them. But when I called, and. said to the su- 
perintendent that I wanted to tell the readers 
of St. Nicholas all about the bureau, he rang 
an electric bell for a guide; and when she ap- 
peared he told her to show me through " spe- 
cial," which meant that closed doors, cages, and 
screens were all to be open to me in order that 
I might not miss anything. 

Of course the first thing to be done in mak- 




ing a note is to make the design and the en- 
graving, and this is really the most difficult and 
important part of the whole work. When an 
order is received from the Treasury for a new 
design, the designer must set his wits to work 


to think of something which is different from 
anything that has already been printed, but 
which at the same time will be in keeping with 
the general look and form of a bank-note. Sev- 
eral years ago it was the custom to print the 
portraits of living persons on the money; but 
Uncle Sam came to the conclusion that this 
was not a very good plan, and so he passed a 
law prohibiting the use of the portraits of living 
persons, and therefore you will never see the 

portrait of a prominent man upon a note or a 
greenback till after his death. 

When the design has been approved by the 
proper officials, it is turned over to the engravers. 
These men are all expert steel-engravers, as 
none but the very best 
and most proficient 
are employed ; and 
they are obliged to 
work in a secluded 
room, into which no 
one but the officials 
of the bureau and 
the special visitors is 
*y« j^i-JR- ever a ll° we d to come. 

Each one sits before 
a window with cur- 
tains and shades so 
arranged as to give 
him the best light ; 
and if the day is not 
bright, he works by 
the electric light. The 
duties of these en- 
gravers are very la- 
borious and difficult, 
as they are obliged to 
be exceedingly careful 
and exact. 

If you will look at 
the pictures upon a 
one-dollar bill, you 
will see that the por- 
trait of Martha Wash- 
ington or of Stanton 
is composed altoge- 
ther of curved or 
straight lines — the 
only kind of engraving 
that is allowed to be 
done in the bureau ; because unless it is done 
in this manner, and unless the lines are cut very 
deep, the engravings cannot be used. Now 
this portrait was engraved in a piece of steel by 
the use of a very sharp little instrument known 
as a graver. 

Every little scratch on the steel plate will 
in printing show a black line, so you will see 
how very careful the engraver has to be that 
he shall not make any false scratches, and 



that the lines shall be just so long and just so 

Now, steel-engraving is the direct opposite of 
wood-engraving. The scratches and cuts made 
on a wooden block will be white in the print, 
and it is only the uncut portions of the block 
that print black; while on the steel the un- 
scratched portion leaves the paper white. 

When a design has been cut on a steel plate 
and it is ready to be printed, the ink is put on 
the plate or block, and all the cuts and scratches 
become filled with ink. 
Then the ink is care- 
fully rubbed off of the 
surface, so that none 
remains except what 
is in the lines. When 
a piece of dampened 
paper is placed on the 
plate and subjected to 
very heavy pressure, 
it sinks into the lines ; 
and when it is taken off 
it draws the ink out 
with it, and thus the 
picture is printed on 
the paper. 

It takes an engraver 
about six weeks or two 
months to complete 
one portrait, and a man 
who engraves the por- 
traits never does any 
other kind of engrav- 
ing. Each engraver 
does only a certain 
portion of the work 
on a note ; no one is 
permitted to engrave 
an entire note ; so that 
besides the portrait- 
engravers, there are 
some who do nothing 
but engrave the figures, 
the seal, the lettering, 
the border, etc. In 
this way it would be 
impossible for an engraver to make a complete 
engraving for his own use, if he were dis- 
honest enough to want to do such a thing. 

Besides this manual work, some of the en- 
graving is done by machinery, as for exam- 
ple the background of the portrait and of the 
borders, and the shading of the letters — this 
being done by what is known as the ruling-ma- 
chine, which can rule several hundred perfectly 
straight lines within an inch. The intricate 
scroll and lace-like work around the figures on 
the face and the back of the note is done by 
a wonderful machine known as the geometric 
lathe. This machine consists of a large num- 


ber of wheels of all sizes and in all sorts of 
arrangements, together with a complicated 
mechanism of eccentrics and rods, all of which 




is incomprehensible to any one but an expert 

By a proper adjustment of its parts, the deli- 
cate diamond point that moves about over the 
face of the steel is made to work out a perfect 
and artistic pattern with greater accuracy and 
much more speed than could be done by hand ; 
and hence this delicate and intricate part of 
the engraving is one of the greatest obstacles 
with which the counterfeiter has to contend, 
for he finds it next to impossible to imitate it 

Fortunately for Uncle Sam, the geometric 
lathe is a very complicated and very expensive 
machine, and the counterfeiter is generally a 
poor man ; and even if he did manage to lay 
up enough money to buy the lathe, it is hardly 
likely he would live long enough to learn 
how to use it properly ; for there are only four 
men in the world who understand how to 
operate it. 

Indeed, the man who now has charge of the 
geometric lathe at the Bureau of Engraving and 
Printing is the only one in the United States 
at the present time who knows how to manage 
it; and if anything should happen to him, it 
might tangle matters up for a while in this 
important branch of our Uncle Sam's big 

Well, after all the different parts of the 
design that go to make up a note are com- 
pleted, the engravings, or " dies " as they are 
called, are transferred to steel rollers. It 
would not do to print from the dies them- 
selves, as they would very soon wear out and 
it would be too expensive to be making new 
ones all the time. So the engraving is trans- 
ferred or pressed on to another piece of steel. 
This is done by rolling a steel roller over the 
dies, with a pressure so great that the impres- 
sion of the dies is cut into the surface of the 
roller, just as the eagle on a fifty-cent piece 
would be impressed on a piece of putty if you 
pressed the half-dollar on it. Of course the 
roller is made as soft as possible, — "decarbon- 
ized" as it is called, — so that the designs can 
be well marked on it. When this is done, the 
roller is hardened and run over a softened steel 
plate, and in this way the engraving is trans- 
ferred for a second time. This plate is large 

enough to contain four engravings or impres- 
sions of the face or the back of a note, — which- 
ever it may be, — and it is from these plates, 
after they have been hardened and touched up 
by the engravers, that the money is printed in 
sheets of four notes each. So you see that if 
anything should happen to a plate, all that 
would be necessary would be to take the roller 
and make another plate, instead of having to 
make new dies. 

Each one of these plates is numbered, and 
each one of the four engravings of the note is 
marked by one of the first four letters of the 
alphabet. If you will look closely on your 
one-dollar bill, you will find a small A or B or 
C or D, which means that it is the first, sec- 
ond, third, or fourth engraving on a certain 
plate; and if you have good eyesight you will 
soon discover the number of the plate in very 
small figures hiding alongside or below the 

Now, you may not think it worth while to 
have these tiny letters and figures on the note, 
but they are one of the many guards Uncle 
Sam uses to prevent counterfeiting ; for the 
bad people who make false money sometimes 
overlook these little marks, or sometimes, when 
they are too smart and crafty, they put a little 
E or an H off in one corner, and of course 
Uncle Sam's experts detect the mistake at 

As you might know, all of these dies, rollers, 
and plates are very valuable, and great care is 
taken to prevent their being lost or stolen. 
Two large vaults, with double steel doors and 
time locks, are used for storing them away. 
Every evening, each and every piece of steel 
that has the least engraving upon it, and that 
has been out of the vault during the clay, is re- 
turned ; and nothing can be taken out in the 
morning without an order from the superinten- 
dent. Every two or three years, a number of 
officials known as the Destruction Committee 
come over from the Treasury to examine the 
vaults for the purpose of seeing whether every- 
thing is all right, and of picking out such roll- 
ers, plates, and dies as they think are no longer 
fit for use. These they have packed into a 
strong box bound with iron bands, and they 
take this box with its precious load down to 

i8 9 4-; 



the Navy Yard, where all the pieces of steel 
are melted in a fiery furnace. 

The paper upon which the engravings are 
printed is made by a private concern, whose 
mills are closely guarded by Uncle Sam's 
watchmen ; for no one is allowed to make this 
particular kind of paper except for the use of 
the Government. It is made from duck cloth 
and canvas clippings, which make the finest 
quality of linen paper. The little red and blue 
scratches you see on the face and back of the 
note are not really scratches, but the silk 
threads that are woven in with the paper. 
When the paper is sent to Washington it is 
stored away under lock and key in the base- 
ment of the Treasury, and sent over, whenever 
it is needed, to the Bureau 
of Engraving and Print- 
ing, in packages of a thou- 
sand sheets each. 

When it reaches the 
bureau, it is taken to what 
is called the wetting di- 
vision, where it is care- 
fully counted to see 
whether the correct 
number of sheets has 
been sent, and then 
placed between wet cloths 
and stacked on the floor. 
When the paper is thor- 
oughly dampened, it is 
counted a second time 
and made ready for the 

The printing is done 
in an immense room on 
the third floor of the 
building, crowded with 
presses and machinery of 
all kinds, doing all sorts 
of printing and making 
all sorts of noises; while 
men and women, young 
and old, short and tall, 
handsome and homely, are busy at work amid 
the noise and confusion and dirt. 

Some of the presses are run by steam, but 
nearly all of them are hand-presses. Several 
times Uncle Sam has announced his intention 

of doing away with these old-time ones, but 
each time the printers objected and Uncle Sam 
relented ; and so to-day, in the midst of all 
the great modern improvements, these ungainly 
hand-presses still remain in Uncle Sam's great 
printing-establishment. Of course the printers 
are not all doing the same kind of work : some 
are printing the greenbacks, some the brown- 
backs, some the faces, and others the backs and 
faces, of the revenue stamps. Each printer has 
a woman assistant, who takes the sheets off 
the press and examines them to see whether 
they are properly printed ; and if she finds no 
defect she lays them on a pile at her side. 
But if she does not think a sheet has been per- 
fectly printed, and the printer agrees with her, 


she tears a rent in it and throws it to one side. 
If she and the printer are both undecided as to 
whether it is to be passed, they leave it for the 
expert examiners down-stairs. Each one of the 
presses has an ingenious register attached to it, 




so that a record is kept of every impression 
made by the press, whether it be on a waste 
sheet or a note. At the end of each day's 
work, a clerk examines the register and com- 
pares it with the number of sheets printed and 

of manufacturing the inks with which the money 
is printed. 

When the sheets are printed, they are taken 
to the room of one of the officials, where a 
record of their number is kept, and they are 


wasted; and if they do not agree, and no satis- 
factory explanation is made, somebody is likely 
to get into trouble. If a sheet is lost, the per- 
son responsible for it must pay its face-value : 
that is, if it was a sheet of five-dollar bills he 
would have to pay twenty dollars, and he 
would have to pay this even if it had only the 
backs printed on it. When you remember that 
there are fifty-dollar bills, one-hundred-dollar 
bills, and one-thousand-dollar bills, you can im- 
agine that everybody is very careful not to lose 
a scrap of paper. 

As Uncle Sam thinks he can make better 
and cheaper ink than anybody else, a portion 
of the basement is used for the dark purpose 

then carried down to the counting and exam- 
ining division. Here they are counted by 
women who do nothing but count, count, 
count all day long, week after week, month 
after month, and often year after year; and they 
are so expert that they can count ten sheets as 
fast as you can count one. Some of the examin- 
ers make themselves a sort of paper cap to pro- 
tect their eyes from the light, for keen eyesight 
is needed in this work. After being counted 
the sheets are thoroughly dried in a large room 
where the temperature is kept up to about 120 
degrees above zero ; and after coming out they 
pass through the hands of the examiners. 

The examiners are obliged to be very skilful, 




and unless a woman is able to keep her mind 
steadily on her work she is of little use in the 
examining division, where every imperfection, 
every little blemish, must be detected, no matter 
how slight or unimportant it may seem. 

Such sheets as are not found perfect in every 
way are thrown in with the waste sheets, to be 
destroyed in what is known as the macerating- 
machine — a machine which grinds the paper to 
shreds and turns it into a kind of pulp. When 
this pulp is dried it is sent back to the manu- 
facturers, to be once more turned into paper. 

Those sheets that are perfect in all respects 
are placed in a press and put under so enor- 
mous a pressure that when they are taken out 
each is as smooth and flat as though it had 
been separately ironed. 

upper right-hand and lower left-hand corners 
are put on the bills and notes by women who 
make use of little machines that keep up a con- 
tinual clatter and rattle. This work requires a 
good deal of skill and experience, and in spite 
of both, mistakes are likely to occur. 

Every woman is allowed to spoil ten out of 
every thousand sheets. Some spoil ten every 
time, and others do not on the average spoil 
more than three or four. 

Those that are spoiled are punched full of 
holes on a funny little machine, so that nobody 
could make any use of them, even if he were 
wicked enough to try. 

The numbers on the money seem simple 
enough, but if anybody should think of go- 
ing into the unwelcome business of counterfeit- 


They are then taken to the division in which 
the numbering is done. Here everything is 
bright and clean, quite different from the litter 
and confusion in the printing and examining 
divisions. The numbers which you see in the 

ing, he would first have to learn some of Uncle 
Sam's little tricks, if he hoped to make a success 
of it; for besides the many other traps Uncle 
Sam has set for these thievish people, he has in- 
vented a very ingenious system of numbering 





bank-notes after they 

have been destroyed 

by the macerator. 

his money, so that the 
man who does not un- 
derstand it will very 
soon be caught if he 
tries to circulate bad 
paper money among 
his good and un- 
suspecting neighbors. 
All the bonds, notes, 
securities, bills, and 
stamps, before they go 
over to the Treasury, 
are stored in a large 
and very strong vault, 
which, like the vaults 
in the engraving divi- 
sion, has two or three 
doors and half a hun- 
dred bolts, in addition 

to a complicated clock 
arrangement, so that 
when the doors are 
closed for the night no 
man or set of men can 
open them again until 
the time arrives for the 
clockwork to pull back 
one of the bolts, and 
then nobody but the 
man who understands 
the combination can 
open the doors. Some- 
times there are two 
hundred and fifty mil- 
lions of dollars' worth 
of paper money stored 
up in this vault, so it is 
no wonder that there 
should be so many 
doors and bolts. 

The money is sent 
over to the Treasury 
in sheets, and it is 
there cut into single 
notes, besides having 
the red seal printed 
on it. Somebody who 
was fond of Arabian 



Nights' stories and subterranean passages, sug- Printing in about three or four years, dirty and 
gested that an underground passageway between ragged, after having traveled, perhaps, many 
the Bureau and the Treasury be built, so that the times over every part of this great country and 
money could be trans- 
ported without danger; "j T^ - TT1 ]f^S 
but Uncle Sam did not 
appreciate this sugges- 
tion, and contented 
himself with a wagon 
and two horses. Any 
one passing down 
Pennsylvania Avenue 
about half-past eight 
or nine o'clock in the 
morning will see this 
great black wagon, 
closely covered on all 
sides, rolling on its way 
toward the Treasury. 
Two stalwart men, 
armed with revolvers, 
keep the driver com- 
pany, while three other 
brave men, likewise 
armed with pistols, 

stand on a broad step at the back to protect 
the wagon from the rear, in case anybody 
should lose his wits to such an extent as to try 
to commit highway robbery on the streets of 

If a note is not lost or destroyed, it finds its 
way back to the Bureau of Engraving and 


passed through hundreds of thousands of hands; 
and then, with a lot of its worn-out companions, 
it is thrown into the macerating-machine and 
forever destroyed with all the marvelous tales it 
might have told of joy and sorrow, storm and 
sunshine, of millionaires and starving people, of 
happy boys and girls. 


the little man of Morrisburg 

Who would a-fishing go ! 
He put three fish into a tub, 

And thought he 'd have a throw ! 
One was a dace, and one was perch, 

And one was speckled trout; 
And just as sure as he put them in, 

He 'd fail to pull them out ! 
Oh, the little man of Morrisburg, 

Who would a-fishing go ! 
With fisherman's rig, when he grows big, 

He '11 know just where to throw ! 

Vol. XXI.— 29. 


By Dr. Charles Alexander Eastman. 


One of the earliest recollections of my adven- 
turous childhood is the ride I had on a pony's 
side. It seems strange to think of riding in 
this manner; nevertheless, the Indian mode of 
life made it possible. I was passive in the 
whole matter. A little girl cousin of mine was 
put in a bag and suspended from the horn of 
an Indian saddle ; but her weight must be 
balanced, or the saddle would not remain on 
the animal's back. Therefore, I also was put 
into a sack, and made to keep both the saddle 
and the girl in their proper position ! I scarcely 
objected to the manner of the ride, for I had 
a very pleasant game of peek-a-boo with the 
little girl, until we came to a big snowdrift, 
where the poor beast was stuck fast and began 
to lie down. Then it was not so nice ! 

This was the convenient and primitive way 
in which some mothers packed their children 
for winter journeys. However cold the weather 
might be, the inmate of the fur-lined sack was 
usually very comfortable — at least I used to 
think so. I believe I was treated to all the 
precarious Indian conveyances, and, as a boy, 
I enjoyed the dog-travois ride as much as any. 
These travois consisted of a set of rawhide strips 
securely lashed to the tent-poles, which were 
harnessed to the sides of the animal as if he 
stood between shafts, while the free ends were 
allowed to drag on the ground. Both ponies 
and a large kind of dogs were used as beasts 
of burden, and they carried in this way the 
smaller children as well as the baggage. 

This mode of traveling for children was pos- 
sible only during the summer; and as the dogs 
were sometimes unreliable, the little ones were 
exposed to a certain amount of danger. For 
instance, whenever a train of dogs had been 
traveling for a long time, almost perishing with 
the heat and their heavy loads, a glimpse of 
water would cause them to forget everything 

else for it. Some of them, in spite of the 
screams of the women, would swim with their 
burdens into the cooling stream, and I was thus 
not infrequently compelled to partake of an 
unwilling bath. 

I was a little over four years old at the time 
of the Sioux massacre in Minnesota. In the 
general turmoil we took flight into British 
Columbia, and the journey is still vividly rec- 
ollected by all our family. A yoke of oxen 
and a lumber-wagon were taken from some 
white farmer and brought home for our con- 
veyance. How delighted I was when I learned 
that we were to ride behind those wise-looking 
animals, and in the gorgeously painted wagon ! 
It seemed almost like a living animal to me, 
this vehicle with four legs, and especially so 
when we got out of axle-grease, and the wheels 
went along squealing like pigs ! 

The boys apparently enjoyed much innocent 
fun by jumping from the high wagon while the 
oxen were leisurely moving along. My elder 
brothers soon became experts. At last I mus- 
tered up courage enough to join them in this 
sport. I was sure they stepped on the wheel, 
so I cautiously placed my moccasined foot 
upon it. Alas ! before I could realize what had 
happened I was under the wheels, and had it 
not been for the Indian immediately behind 
our train, I might have been run over by the 
wagon following us as well. 

This was my first experience with a civilized 
vehicle. I cried, venting all possible reproaches 
on the white man's team, and concluded that 
a dog-travois was good enough for me. I was 
really rejoiced that we were moving away from 
the people who made the wagon which had 
almost ended my life, and I did not think at all 
that I alone was to be blamed in the matter. 
I could not be persuaded to ride on that 
vehicle again, and was glad when finally we 
left it beside the Missouri River. 

Our wanderings from place to place afforded 


22 7 

us many pleasant experiences, as well as many 
hardships and misfortunes. We had several 
narrow escapes from death. There were times 
of plenty and times of scarcity. There were 
seasons of happiness and seasons of sadness. 
In savage life the early spring is the most 
trying time, and almost all the famines oc- 
curred at this period of the year. 

The Indians are a patient and clannish peo- 
ple ; their love for one another is stronger than 
that of any civilized people I know. If this 
were not so, I believe there would have been 

days. I well remember the six small birds 
which constituted the breakfast for six families 
one morning; and then we had no dinner or 
supper to follow it. What a relief that was to 
me — although I had only a small wing of a 
small bird for my share ! Soon after this, we 
came to a region where buffaloes were plenty, 
and we soon forgot all the suffering we had 
just gone through. 

Such was the Indians' wild life ! When game 
was plenty and the sun shone graciously upon 
them, they forgot the bitter experiences of the 


tribes of cannibals among them. White people 
have been known to kill and eat their com- 
panions in preference to starving; but Indians 
— never ! In times of famine the adults often 
denied themselves a fair meal in order to make 
the food last as long as possible for the chil- 
dren, who were not able to bear hunger as well 
as the old. As a people they can go without 
food much longer than any other nation. 

I once passed through one of these hard 
springs when we had nothing to eat for several 

winter before. Little preparation was made 
for the future. They are children of Nature, 
and occasionally she whips them with the lashes 
of experience ; yet they are forgetful and care- 
less. Much of their suffering might have been 
prevented by a little calculation. Buring the 
summer, when Nature was at her best and pro- 
vided abundantly for the savage, it seemed to 
me that no life was happier than his ! Food was 
free — lodging free — everything free! All were 
alike rich in the summer ; and, again, all were 



alike poor in the winter and early spring. 
Their diseases were fewer, and were not so de- 
structive as now, and the Indian's health was 
generally good. The Indian boy enjoyed such 
a life as almost all boys dream of and would 
choose for themselves if they were permitted 
to do so. He had the fullest liberty, with the 
privilege of wandering where he pleased and of 
pursuing his own inclinations. 

Yet the idea of becoming a warrior was early 
inculcated and nurtured in his simple mind. 
He was intrusted entirely with the care of the 
ponies. He must bring them home at evening 
and picket them near the tepee, and again herd 
them in the morning upon some pleasant grassy 
plain. He must always be on the lookout for 
horse-thieves of other tribes. Thus I spent a 
good portion of every day in pony-racing and 
practising feats of horsemanship. When the po- 
nies were watered, we boys used to play at sham- 
fights, chasing one another across the streams. 

The raids made upon our people by other 
tribes were frequent, and we had to be con- 
stantly on the watch. I remember one time a 
night attack was made upon our camp, and all 
our ponies stampeded. Only a few of them 
were recovered, and our journeys after this mis- 
fortune were effected mostly by means of the 

The second winter after the Minnesota mas- 
sacre, my father and my two older brothers, 
with several others, were betrayed by a half- 
breed at Winnipeg to the United States au- 
thorities. As I was then living with my uncle 
in another part of the country, I became sepa- 
rated from them for ten years. During all this 
time I was under the impression that they had 
been killed by the whites ; hence I was taught 
that I must avenge their deaths as soon as I was 
able to go on the war-path. In reality, they 
were imprisoned for four years, and then par- 
doned by President Lincoln. 

I must say a word in regard to the character 
of my uncle, who was my adviser and teacher 
during most of my earlier days. He was a 
man about six feet two inches tall, very erect 
and broad-shouldered. He was known at that 
time as the best hunter and the bravest warrior 
among the Sioux in British America, where he 

(To be con 

still lives ; for to this day we have failed to per- 
suade him to return to the United States. He 
was a typical Indian — not handsome, but 
truthful and brave. He had a few simple prin- 
ciples from which he scarcely ever departed. 
Some of these I will relate when I speak of my 

It is wonderful that any children grew up 
through all the exposures and hardships that 
we suffered in those days ! The frail tepee, 
pitched anywhere, in the winter as well as in 
the summer, was all the protection that we had 
against storms. I can recall times when we 
were snowed in, and it was very difficult to get 
fuel. We were once three days without much 
fire, and all of the time it stormed violently. 
There seemed to be no anxiety on the part of 
our people; they rather looked upon all this 
as a matter of course, knowing that the storm 
would cease when the time came. 

I could endure as much cold and hunger as 
any of them ; but now if I miss one meal or 
accidentally wet my feet, I suffer as much as 
if I had never lived in the manner I have 
described, when it was a matter of course to 
get myself soaking wet many a time. Even if 
there was plenty to eat, it was thought better 
for us to practise fasting sometimes, and hard 
exercise was kept up continually, both for the 
sake of health and to prepare the body for the 
exertion which it might at any moment be 
required to undergo. In my own remembrance, 
my uncle used often to bring home a deer on 
his shoulder. The distance was sometimes 
great for any man to carry such a load, yet he 
did not consider it any sort of a feat to perform. 

The usual custom with us was to eat only 
two meals a day, and these were served at each 
end of the day. This rule was not invariable, 
however; for if there should be any callers, it 
was Indian etiquette to offer either tobacco or 
food, or both. The rule of two meals a day was 
more closely observed by the men — especially 
the younger men — than by the women. This 
was when the Indians recognized that a true 
manhood, one of physical skill and activity, 
depends upon dieting and regular exercise. 
No such system is practised by the reservation 
Indians of to-day. 

Hinted. ) 

ORN MANi% ,:. g 

7 " ~P ~Z&M 

By Clinton Scollard. 

There 's a queer little man lives 

down the street 
Where two of the broadest highways meet, 
In a queer little house that 's half of it glass, 
With windows open to all 

who pass, 
And a low littl e roof that 's 

nearly flat, 
And a chimney as black 

as Papa's best hat. 
Oh, the house is built on 

this funny plan 
Because it 's the home of 

the pop-corn man! 

How does he sleep, if he 

sleeps at all ? 
He must roll up like a 

rubber ball, 
Or like a squirrel, and 

store himself 
All huddly-cuddly under 

the shelf. 
If he wanted to stretch he'd 

scarce have space 
In his bare little, spare 

little, square little 

He seems like a rat 

cooped up in a can, 
This brisk little, frisk lit- 
tle pop-corn man! 

And his wrinkles, too — oh, I know he 's 

wise ! 
And then just think of the way he makes 
The corn all jump into snowy flakes 

I know he 's wise by the ~- 

way he looks, 

For he 's just like the men I 've seen in books, With a " pop ! pop ! pop ! " in his covered pan, 
With his hair worn off, and his squinty eyes, This queer little, dear little pop-corn man ! 


heard last summer a true story, which 
seemed to me worthy the ear of St. Nicholas. 
It was narrated by a clergyman to a group of 
young folks on a hotel piazza. I shall not tell 
his name, because I know the story better than 
the historian. 

Several years ago this gentleman was living 
in the German capital with his family. There 
were many new sights and sounds to interest 
the American family, but nothing more fasci- 
nating than the colony of white storks which 
settled on the adjacent housetops and made a 
bird village of the nestled chimney-stacks. 

The birds had such an air of proprietorship 


and general coziness, that some member of the 
family insisted that that particular part of the 
city was the regular summer home of these 
tourists, who returned to their old quarters each 
season, in human fashion. This idea was not 
accepted as fact, and there were many specula- 
tions as to some possible means of testing the 
theory. Not being up in the stork language, 
no one could ask questions and get answers, 
neither could any mortal remember the fine 
points of stork physiognomy from year to year. 

A plan was finally decided upon, and one 
particularly aristocratic monarch-of-all-I-survey- 
looking bird was enticed by a good dinner into 
the garden. There a silver ring was placed 
about his leg, on which was engraved, " Berlin, 
1888." He then flew back to his favorite chim- 
ney, and ere long he joined the passing flocks 
that were constantly leaving for the south. 
Many a thought followed the feathered fugitive 
during the long winter, and at the first sign of 
spring eager eyes watched for the return of the 
travelers. After many days, a distant line of 



storks, far up in the blue, came into view. Over 
the clergyman's house several detached them- 
selves from the sky caravan and hovered 
around the dwelling. A tempting feast was 
prepared, and presently the weary pilgrims flew 
down into the yard. Friendly eyes watched 

every movement with joyous welcome. Ima- 
gine the surprise when one of the flock was seen 
to have two silver rings upon its legs! 

Behold ! the old ring was back again, and 
accompanying it another, which read : " India 
sends greeting to Berlin." 


By William T. Hornaday. 

It is quite true that a goodly number of 
books and articles about animals have been 
printed for the special benefit of Uncle Sam's 
boys and girls. But how many are there, think 
you, out of every thousand of those same young 
people who have a clear knowledge of the 
grand divisions of the animal kingdom ? Not 
many, I fear. Why is this ? Chiefly because 
those whose business it is to publish maga- 
zines and books for the young have either 
forgotten or neglected to lay for them a series 
of foundation-stones on which they might build 
intelligently all the rest of their lives. The 
publishers of St. Nicholas have decided to do 
now what has been so long and so universally 
left undone in this field. I have been invited 
to select the choicest materials our country 
can furnish, take mortar and trowel, and lay 
for our boys and girls a foundation on which 
they can build zoological knowledge with regu- 
larity and precision. 

Come, then, let us get together in a great 
zoological observatory, and put over our door 
this inscription: 


After taking a bird's-eye view of the grand 
divisions of the animal kingdom, let us then 
cultivate the acquaintance of our nearest and 
most interesting neighbors — the quadrupeds, 
birds, reptiles, and fishes of North America. 

Let us talk our talks and make our observa- 
tions systematically, and leave for a while the 
miscellaneous studies in natural history we have 
hitherto been following. The animal kingdom 
is not an animated crazy-quilt, but one long, 
unbroken chain, — with a few side links here 
and there, to be sure, — the unity and beauty 
of which are seen to be most complete when 
you follow it up or down, link by link. 

In the matter of illustrations, the publishers 
generously give "unlimited credit" on all the 
sources of supply, with orders to get only the 
best, and, in the words of Mrs. Jack Means, 
" Git a plenty while y' 're a-gittin'." We are to 
lay under contribution the best American mu- 
seums and zoological gardens, and the best 
artists and engravers, for the purpose of obtain- 
ing the finest of animal illustrations, and plenty 
of them. 

How strange it is that while nearly all our 
schools teach an unnecessary amount of higher 
mathematics and dead-and-gone history, it is 
a rare exception to find even a city high school 
in which the boys and girls are taught syste- 
matically about the inhabitants of the earth! 
Even in some normal schools this is shamefully 
neglected. Thus we are left to grow up, live, 
and die without any systematic knowledge 
of our neighbors, — and by neighbors I mean 
not only man, but also the other animals of the 

" But," some one will say, " I take no inter- 
est in animals." That is merely the trade-mark 
of zoological ignorance, my boy. If you only 




knew something about them, you would. You 
could not possibly help being interested in their 
babyhood, and how they are reared, where they 
live, what they live upon, what they do in win- 
ter, how some of them build their homes, feed, 
fight, play, and talk. Yes, talk. Why, cer- 
tainly all the more highly organized animals 
have languages of their own, and quite extensive 
and wonderful some of their languages are, too. 
Recently a great stir has been made by Pro- 
fessor Garner, who has made the astounding dis- 
covery (?) that monkeys have a language of 
their own, and can talk to each other. Dear 
me ! And who ever said they could n't ? I 
suppose Mr. Garner will next discover that 
Africa is the darky continent, and the Dutch 
have taken Holland! I have here at my left 
elbow a two-volume book by Dr. W. L. Lind- 
say, in which no less than five chapters are de- 
voted to the subject of language among the 
higher animals. There is probably not a single 
species of bird or quadruped but has a language 
of its own. Every farmer's boy knows perfectly 
the language of his chickens, — quite an exten- 
sive language it is, too, — and can interpret cor- 
rectly every sound they make. But there, — we 

must not stray into by-paths the first thing, no 
matter how full of interest they may be. 

To start fair with my reader, I wish to say 
that while the zoological sketches I shall offer 
will be meant to contain facts that are interest- 
ing and entertaining, and on the whole easy 
reading, they will be offered with the serious 
purpose of telling you what every one of Uncle 
Sam's boys and girls ought to know as a 
matter of common education. You may never 
get the like in any school you attend, unless 
you should take the scientific course in some 
good college or university ; and this series, re- 
member, is offered as something to remember 
and use for the rest of your lives. For instance, 
if you intend to become a minister, I would not 
have you make the mistake once made by a 
revivalist in Texas. In his sermon he chose the 
coyote as an illustration of fierce bloodthirsti- 
ness and horrible danger to the traveler. But 
his moral missed fire completely, for the cow- 
boys, who knew the coyote as the king of 
cowards, laughed him to scorn, and refused to 
accept a moral on that basis. 

Our first step is to take a good look at a 
map of the universe, find the places where our 

Natural Science; 


The study of Nature's s 

works and forces. 


Natural History : 

The study of Nature's < 
common works. 


The science of tlfe com- < 
position of things. 

Physical Science: 

The study of Nature's 
elements and forces. 


f Geology The study of the creation of the 

earth and its changes. 

Mineralogy . . . .The study of the mineral and 
rock elements of the earth's 

Botany The science of plant life. 

Zoology The science of animal life. 

Anthropology. .The scientific study of man and 
his works. 

Various subdivisions. 

r Astronomy The study of the heavenly bodies. 

Physics The science of the forces and 

principles of inanimate nature. 

Meteorology ... The scientific study of the earth's 

[Note: The subjects illustrated in this paper have been selected with care to represent perfect types of 
each of the fourteen great classes of animals. (See page 236.) Thus, the Baltimore oriole is chosen as the 
most perfect bird type because (1) it is a good flier; (2) it is a perching bird; (3) it has_ beautiful plumage; 
(4) it has a beautiful song; (5) it builds a truly wonderful nest; (6) it feeds on both insects and grain; and 
(7) it has fixed habits of migration.] 






objects, methodically classified, arranged, and 
made permanently useful. The science of zo- 
ology (pronounced zo-ol-o-gy, not ;sw-ol-o-gy) is 
the systematic study of animals. And this 
brings us to the laying of 

Our Corner-stone. An " animal " is any mem- 
ber of the animal kingdom, no matter whether 
it be quadruped, bird, reptile, or fish, insect, 
crab, or jellyfish. Unfortunately, a great num- 
ber of English-speaking people have fallen into 
the mischievous habit of saying " animal " when- 
ever they mean " quadruped," or " mammal." 
If I can teach all the readers of St. Nicholas 
to adopt and use hereafter the good, simple, 

work is to be done, and study the location and 
surroundings of what is to be our zoological 

" What is zoology, anyway ? " says eleven- 
year-old Helen. 

Let us see what it is, and also where it is 
with reference to the rest of this great universe. 
On the opposite page is a classification de- 
signed to show you all this and much more 
in a very few words. I desire to place it " on 
file " with you, as a reference map of our 

And what is "science," do you ask? A very 
proper question. Science is a collection of de- 
tailed facts about any class or group of natural 


sensible word mammal, instead of " animal," 
when speaking of quadrupeds, I shall feel that 
I have not lived in vain. 

And now for something interesting — the 
grand divisions, the Europe-Asia-and-Africa, as 
one might say, of the animal kingdom. If there 
is one thing more than another that professional 
naturalists cannot agree upon, it is the syste- 

1 warn 

■If™ 1 


Vol. XXI.— -,o. 

iW M 

III I Wlllll '1 'lllll 







matic arrangement or 
classification of the ani- 
mal kingdom. As for 
myself, a mere private 
in the ranks, the laws of 
common sense compel 
me to reject one feature 
of the most commonly 
accepted list of clas- 
sification, which gives 
to all vertebrate (or 
backboned) animals 
combined — mammals, 






birds, reptiles, and fishes — the same rank 
in the scale of arrangement as is given to 
the insects alone, and corals alone, and even to 
worms ! This means, for example, that the dif- 

riiilBi'r 11 ""-^ 






butterflies, and bees. I cannot accept an ar- 
rangement which degrades the greatest and 
most important groups of animals, and promotes 
to the highest rank (called branch) the various 
groups below the vertebrates. 

Classification of natural objects is simply a 


ferences between mammals, birds, reptiles, and 
fishes are no greater, and are of no higher im- 
portance, than the differences between the va- 
rious orders of insects 
-beetles, grasshoppers, 


means by which to arrive at a clear knowledge 
of a multitude of different forms, and an aid to 
the memory in keeping each one in its place. 
On page 236 is the arrangement which I be- 




'— i/Vtf J 

Wiliiho-s— ills. 





lieve conveys to the mind of the student the 
clearest and most truthful idea of nature's own 
grand divisions of the animal kingdom, and the 
position occupied by each. If all the living 
creatures of the world were thrown together on 
a plain in one great creeping, crawling, yowling 
mass, and we were called upon to sort them out 
as perfectly as possible in a week's time, these 
are the various baskets we would naturally put 
them in during the first general sorting-out: 

J5 Kingdom. 









Vertebrates : 

Animals with a 

spinal column 

and internal bony 



Class. General Characters. 

Mammals Warm-blooded creatures that bring forth their young alive 

and suckle them. Hairy; air-breathing. 

Birds Warm-blooded; young hatched from eggs; feathered, and 

can fly. All air-breathing. 

Reptiles Cold-blooded; egg-layers. Some amphibious, and most 

are either scaly or shell-covered. 

Batrachians. .The connecting-links between reptiles and fishes. 

Fishes Cold-blooded; strictly aquatic; mostly scaly; possessing 

gills and fins. 

Insects Body divided into three parts ; blood purified by tubes in 

the body ; reproduce by metamorphoses. 

Crustaceans. .Covered by hard shell; gill-breathing; mainly aquatic. 

MoLLUSKS . ... Covered by a hard, limy shell. 

Worms True worms, and also zoological odds and ends that do not 

quite fit in any of the other classes. 

Starfishes . . .Salt-water animals, with a star-like or radiate structure. 

Corals Soft-bodied salt-water animals, some of which build up 

solid masses of their limy skeletons. 

JELLYFISHES . .Disk-shaped, gelatinous sea-animals, having no hard parts. 

Sponges Plant-like aquatic animals, without power to move; skele- 
ton of tough, fibrous cells. 

Protozoans. . .The lowest forms of animal life, beginning with the single 
cell. Mostly microscopic. 


This is offered to you as the ground-plan of these fourteen classes into about 112 orders, a 

what will be — if you wish it so — our great task which we will not enter upon, for we have 

zoological building. now before us in the next paper something 

A step farther would mean the subdivision of vastly more pleasing and interesting. 

{To be continued.) 


By Lee Carter. 

I found one night 

In my candle's light, — 
The soot was lumpy and black in the flame,- 

A witch's head 

With eyes of red, 
And I wondered whence she came. 

Said I, " O Witch in the candle-light, 
Where is my lost doll hid ? 

Why don't I get all my lessons right? 
And always do as I 'm bid ? " 

But the little witch looked angry and black, 

And never a word she said ; 
So with Grandmama's snuffers I went "snick- 
snack ! " 

And scampered away to bed. 


By Fannie Ratti. 

Who and what were the Brownies ? and did 
Palmer Cox invent them ? are questions that 
come to Mr. Cox from children all over the 

The Brownies were fairies or sprites who were 

believed to inhabit the forests of Scotland long 
years ago; and Mr. Cox chose them for his 
rhymes in preference to all other little people 
because they were such good little things, never 
mischievous or naughty like the greater part of 



Fairyland's diminutive population. The Brown- 
ies never showed themselves to men, never 
gave advice or charms, but went quietly about 
doing good, seeking out every one in trouble in 
order to afford relief. Their work was ac- 
complished wholly during the night, for it was 
believed that should the sun 
shine upon them, his rays 
would be fatal. 

How did the artist dis- 
cover what the little crea- 
tures looked like ? He 
searched everywhere for in- 
formation, in all the musty 
old books he could find that 
contained accounts of fair- 
ies or fairy-pictures ; but of 
course there were no pho- 
tographs of the Brownies, as 
no one had ever seen them ; 
so he was obliged to make 
them according to his own 
idea of what a fun-loving, 
good-natured sprite might 
be. At first all the Brown- 
ies drawn by Mr. Cox were 
alike — round-faced, thin- 
legged little fellows wearing 
pointed caps. Soon he began 
to introduce the different 
personages. The Irishman 
was the first new figure 
seen in the gay company, 
and, in all the stories that 
followed, Mr. Cox con- 
tinued to add new char- 
acters until the list has 
become almost full. Some- 
times the characters would 
suggest themselves to him ; 
sometimes an idea received from an admiring 
reader would be carried out. A few days after 
the verses in which the Brownie Indian ap- 
peared for the first time had been sent to press, 
the following queer request from a little chap 
in Dakota reached the artist : 

Dear Mr. Cox : Please make a Brownie Indian 
with feathers. 

To the little writer the feathers were the dis- 
tinguishing mark of an Indian, for he lived 

among them, and was very familiar with their 
style of dress. When the boy discovered the 
Indian, made purposely to please him (he 
thought), and dressed in full war-costume with 
the desired feathers, his delight knew no bounds ; 
and another letter was written thanking the 


artist, and advising him to keep an eye on " the 
new member, because," explained the boy, 
" the Indian looks very savage, and might 
scalp the Dude and spoil his complexion." 
Another little boy, very fond of horses, wanted 
a jockey Brownie. 

Very often little girls write to ask why there 
are no girl Brownies; they seem to consider 
themselves neglected — not finding any one to 
represent them among their favorites. But 




tradition says there were no girl Brownies — 
another difference found between them and all 
other kinds of fairies. Notwithstanding this 
fact, there is a little girl in Maryland who has 
been called for them, her real name being 
" Brownie." To her Mr. Cox sent the auto- 
graph verse printed on page 241. 

In a big box in a dark closet Mr. Cox keeps 
hundreds of letters received from bovs and 

bed late, and is usually among the last to arrive 
at the meeting-place, but they are fond of him 
all the same. On the whole, the Dude seems 
to be the favorite, as even the boys show a 
preference for him. But their devotion is not 
so entire as that of the girls; naturally, they 
take a great interest in the Policeman and the 

The Brownie wearing the crown is not the 


girls all over the United States, Canada, and 
also from across the ocean ; and even now not 
a day passes but he finds three or four chil- 
dren's letters in his mail. 

Every letter is faithfully answered, and the 
artist's correspondents often make him laugh 
by the funny things they ask, and the amusing 
stories they tell. But the greater number of 
these letters contain merely thanks and expres- 
sions of appreciation. The children love the 
Brownies, so they cannot resist the desire to 
tell Mr. Cox about it. All the little girls who 
write to him prefer the Dude to the others, be- 
cause he is always so nicely dressed. They 
admit he is inclined to be lazy, likes to lie in 

king, Mr. Cox is often called upon to explain. 
He merely took the crown from one of the 
palaces they visited, and has wom it ever 
since; but it gives him no authority, as 
their government is strictly republican. The 
Twins, being the oldest Brownies, take a fa- 
therly care of the others, assisting them when 
they are hurt or in difficulties. In case any 
particular Brownie happens to be missing from 
one or two stories, the children are anxious to 
know whether he is dead, or what has become 
of him; but there is no need for the children 
to fear, for none of the Brownies can ever come 
to serious harm. 

Mr. Cox's youngest correspondent is but two 

i8 9 4.: 



years and nine months old — so tiny, in fact, 
that his mama is obliged to write his letters. 
This little fellow is desirous of knowing " dus' 
[just] where the Brownies go bed." Numbers 
of others ask the same question, as they often 

others in the olden times in Scotland; and it is 
for this reason that he never destroys anything 
in any way connected with them. On the walls 
of his studio are some toy Brownies made of 
cloth, wire, and chamois-skin; they were sent 


//UW+ cj l X ZZ&BS52 r rrL^ tl At Q-z^'l 

wonder where the Brownies go " when the stars 
go out." Two little boys even refused to obey 
their mother's injunction to "be good and go 
to sleep," giving as their reason for refusing to 
do so that the Brownies are good and they 
never go to sleep. In order to convince them, 
their mother wrote to Mr. Cox, who replied 
that of course the Brownies sleep, as every one 
must ; but they sleep on beds of soft moss and 
leaves deep in the woods where it is dark, as 
they are obliged to take their rest in the 

The first Brownie story came out in October, 

to him by the lady who first manufactured 
them, to secure his approval before putting them 
on the market. It took her a year to get them 
to look just like those in the books. Four 
more Brownies stand on one of his desks ; they 
are " green "-looking things made of eggs, and 
were given to him as an Easter offering by two 
sisters in Detroit. The heads and bodies are 
formed of separate eggs, the arms and legs of 
wire, and their clothes of tissue-paper. The 
little artists succeeded admirably in painting in 
water-colors the expressions of all four. Be- 
sides the common Brownie and those already 


1882, long before many of those who love them mentioned, there are the Chinaman, the Indian, 

to-day were born. The Brownies have brought and the Dutchman. 

good luck to Mr. Cox, as they used to do for Brownie Land — or, in other words, Mr. 
Vol. XXL— 31. 



Cox's studio, on Broadway, New York — does 
not in the least resemble what we should 
imagine a fairies' hiding-place to be. We 
would fancy a dimly lighted room, full of all 
kinds of queer old-fashioned furniture and 
hangings, forming nooks and corners where 
the little sprites could play at hide-and-seek, 
or conceal themselves at the approach of hu- 
man footsteps. Instead, the room is large and 
very light, with five windows through which 
comes the continual echo of the city's busy 
life; though there are, of course, cozy corners 

and hiding-places from which the Brownies 
might peep to watch their friend at work. It 
is at a very business-like desk, covered with 
pencils, pens, brushes for India-ink, and paper, 
that the artist seats himself when he wishes to 
enrich some page with a new picture to delight 
his thousands of small readers. 

But in spite of his commonplace surround- 
ings, the noise of heavy carts and the never- 
quiet street-cars, Palmer Cox manages to hear 
the Brownies chat, and to see all they do, as 
his verses and pictures prove. 


By Palmer Cox. 


.HE infant year scarce 
toddled o'er 
The threshold of 
Time's open 
To show the date that 
J ^jZ^S'T f ar anc [ n ear 

Must now at letter-heads appear, 
When Brownies answered to a call 
That promised pleasant times for all. 
Said one, " A rest we have enjoyed 
Since last our hands have been employed, 
Or since with glee we rambled round 
Through many a strange historic ground. 
Here in the 'Old Bay State' we '11 find 
Much that may well engross the mind ; 
Although no ancient castles throw 
Their shadows on the waves below, 
As by the Tweed, the Rhine, or Rhone, 
Or other streams as widely known, 
This land, believe me, is not weak 
In points the tourist well may seek. 
This granite monument so high 
That here is pointing to the sky, 
And draws the traveler's eyes long ere 
He comes within the city fair, 
Soon calls to mind the clash and din 
That bright June morning ushered in, 
When up the steep and slippery slope, 

With leveled steel came Britain's hope 
In even lines, with even tread, 
And crimson banners overhead." 
Another said, " 'T is true, indeed, 
As one may on the tablet read, 
This is the spot where Warren fell, 
Upon that day when rang the bell 
Of Freedom through the startled land, 
To call to arms each valiant band. 
Here bravely up the grassy steep 
The British came, in columns deep, 
To backward roll from volleys hot 
Of bullets, slugs, and partridge-shot, 

Or whatsoever men 
could pour 

Or ram into the 
smoking bore." 

Soon round and 
round the wind- 
ing stair 

They ran to climb 
the tall affair, 
To reach to topmost windows small, 
And gain a bird's-eye view of all. 
It was, indeed, a pleasing sight : 
The city in a blaze of light, 
With streets and squares and pleasure-grounds 
Marked out with lamps to farthest bounds. 
They hurried round from place to place 




With nimble feet and beaming face; 
Now through the Public Garden strayed, 
Then in the Boston Common played, 
Until a striking clock would prove 
The time had come for them to move. 
Upon the old church spire they gazed 
Where long ago the signal blazed 
That gave the hint to Paul Revere 
To mount his steed and disappear 
Into the darkness, far away 
His hasty tidings to convey. 
Not satisfied to simply stare 
Upon the church from street or square, 

WMi — - a»=»- v^i^5»__ 


■ W^£Z5^tZ&2?*r~:^»-^^**.,5^ZX**~L 



The Brownies to the belfry went 

To look around; then, well content, 

They started off to make a call 

On old time-honored Faneuil Hall. 

There they stood round and "speechified" 

From balconies on either side, 

And talked about the 

times when there 

The angry people did 

Till every nook and 

foot of space 
Was crowded with the 

To Cambridge, with 

inquiring mind, 
The Brownies traveled 

next, to find 
The ancient oak be- 
neath whose shade 
Stood Washington to 
draw his blade 




With solemn vows to take command 
Of his bold, patriotic band. 
They tarried there to climb about 
And study old inscriptions out. 
And then away to Plymouth Rock 

The Brownies ran, a lively flock; 
For lightly does the Brownie go, 
And skims the meadow like a crow, 
When there is need of extra haste, 
Or few the minutes he can waste. 
When that historic spot was found, 
In groups the Brownies stood around 
To talk about the daring few 
Whose spirit nothing could subdue. 
They entered boats, and, pulling out 

Some space from 
shore, they turn- 
ed about 



i8 9 4-] 



Upon the rough though welcome beach, 

So far from persecution's reach. 

Some jumped, while water still was deep, 

And down they went to take a peep 

At submarine attractions spread 

Where clams and lobsters make a bed ; 

But, rising, found a friendly hand 

Prepared to drag them to the land; 

For Brownies note each other's woe, 

And quickly to the rescue go ; 

Through flood or fire they '11 dash amain, 


And made a rush, to show the way 
The Pilgrims acted on that day 
When it was counted much to be 
The first to place a foot or knee 

Nor let companions call in vain. 
They don't look round to see who '11 fling 
His coat aside, the first to spring 
Without a thought but one — to save 




A fellow-creature from the grave : 

They go themselves. Thus oft you '11 find 

A dozen with a single mind — 

Each striving to be first to lend 

Assistance to a suffering friend. 

Said one, when he had gained 

the ear 
Of dripping comrades standing 

' No wonder that the Pilgrims 

A lengthy breath when they 

got through 
The jumping in and crawling 

That marked their landing 
hereabout ; 
And much the Indians must have been 
Surprised to see those stalwart men 

So eager to find footing here 
Upon the Western Hemisphere." 

The Brownies now to Lowell sped, 
And then away to Marblehead; 
On Salem next their eyes were thrown - 
That has a history of its own. 
And then to old Nantucket strand 
With eager glances moved the band, 
Where they could gain no stinted view 
Of ocean rolling deep and blue. 

Hurry , scurry ! Thraurth the snow 
Bobby 5 sled and Booty j^o . 
In the storm or pleasant weather, 
iiohby and his sled together. 

Blow jour finjers , stamp jour toes, ., m 
Dont let JacR Trost nip 
Up the hill, and down 

Lota of fun for littl 



By John Ernest McCann. 

Roll your ball of snow, children, 
Roll your ball of snow ! 

The more you roll your snowball up, 
The bigger it will grow ! 

Roll a kind thought round, children, 

Roll it all around ! 
Until it gathers all kind thoughts 

That gentle hearts have found. 


By J. Edmund V. Cooke. 

When you find a certain lack 

In the stiffness of your back 

At a threatened fierce attack, 

Just the hour 

That you need your every power, 

Look a bit 

For a thought to baffle it. 

Just recall that every knave, 

Every coward, can be brave 

Till the time 

That his courage should be prime — 

Then 't is fled. 

Keep your head ! 

What a folly 't is to lose it 

Just the time you want to use it ! 

When the ghost of some old shirk 

Comes to plague you, and to lurk 

In your study or your work, 

Here 's a hit 

Like enough will settle it. 

Knowledge is a worthy prize ; 

Knowledge comes to him who tries - 

Whose endeavor 

Ceases never. 

Everybody would be wise 

As his neighbor, 

Were it not that they who labor 

For the trophy creep, creep, creep, 

While the others lag or sleep; 

And the sun comes up some day 

To behold one on his way 

Past the goal 

Which the soul 

Of another has desired, 

But whose motto was, " I 'm tired." 

When the task of keeping guard 

Of your heart — 

Keeping weary watch and ward 

Of the part 

You are called upon to play 

Every day — 

Is becoming dry and hard, — 

Conscience languid, virtue irksome, 

Good behavior growing worksome, — 

Think this thought : 

Doubtless everybody could, 

Doubtless everybody would, 

Be superlatively good, 

Were it not 

That it 's harder keeping straight 

Than it is to deviate; 

And to keep the way of right, 

You must have the pluck to fight. 


By Emilie Poulsson. 

Laura, Lady Laura, was a beautiful doll 
who lived with some children in a big brick 
house on a hill, a mile away from the city. 

These children — Mary and Alice and Susy 
and Jenny and Julia and Polly and Linda and 
Sarah and Fanny and Winny and Dora and 
Ethel, and many others — all lived together, with 

kind people to take care of them, because they 
were children who had no fathers and mothers. 
Lady Laura had come to them as a present. 
She was to be a playmate for them all. 

One of the little girls, Ethel, could not hear 
or speak. She could laugh and run and play, 
but when she wanted to talk she had to make 




letters with her fingers, and spell out whatever 
words she wanted to say. 

One day, when Ethel was playing with Lady 
Laura, she laughed out with great delight. 
What do you think she had found ? Why, a 
wonderful thing, to be sure ! Lady Laura could 
talk with her fingers ! 

The pretty doll's arms and hands were of 
kid, and each finger and thumb had a wire 
in it. 

Ethel had found that she could bend Lady 
Laura's wee fingers into the shapes of the 
letters. After this wonderful discovery, Ethel 
had grand fun with Lady Laura. 

When they played "tea-party," Ethel's fingers 
would spell out words like these : 

W\ flgj 



•'Will you have sugar?" 

And then she would take Lady Laura's tiny 
kid hand, and bend the fingers into these 
shapes ; and this would be Lady Laura's reply : 


" Six lumps, please." 

I could not begin to tell you of all the fine 
plays they had together. Lady Laura was 
always ready to talk as much as Ethel wished; 
and she could spell just as well as Ethel could, 

Ethel grew very fond of Lady Laura, and 

talked with her so much that Lady Laura had 

to go to the doll hospital and get new 

hands many, many times before 

Ethel had grown too big 

a girl to play with 

her any more. 

Vol. XXL— 32. 


(-for Frisky Young Mathematicians. ) 

By George Warren Stearns. 

It is well known that the square of any 
number can be readily obtained ; also the cube, 
the fourth power, and so on. Thus, the square 
of two is four, the cube is eight, the fourth 
power is sixteen, etc. Likewise in algebra it 
is not difficult to find the successive powers of 
various quantities. For example, the square 
of m is m-, the cube is nfi, the fourth power 

is ;« 4 , etc. Or a polynomial, as a + b, can be 
similarly involved. 

Now, everybody knows what a square looks 

like, and everybody knows just how a cube 

looks ; if not, the children of the kindergarten 

can tell us, for they all learn those two shapes. 

The question here proposed is : 

What does the fourth power look like ? 


Bv Huck Finn. Edited by Mark Twain. 

\Begitn in the November rntwber.] 

Chapter VI. 

I was so weak that the only thing I wanted 
was a chance to lay down, so I made straight 
for my locker-bunk, and stretched myself out 
there. But a body could n't get back his 
strength in no such oven as that, so Tom give 
the command to soar, and Jim started her 

We had to go up a mile before we struck 
comfortable weather where it was breezy and 
pleasant and just right, and pretty soon I was 
all straight again. Tom had been setting quiet 
and thinking; but now he jumps up and says : 

" I bet you a thousand to one / know where 
we are. We 're in the Great Sahara, as sure as 
guns ! " 

He was so excited he could n't hold still ; 
but I was n't. I says : 

" Well, then, where 's the Great Sahara ? In 
England or in Scotland ? " 

" 'T ain't in either, it 's in Africa." 

Jim's eyes bugged out, and he begun to stare 
down with no end of interest, because that was 
where his originals come from ; but I did n't 
more than half believe it. I could n't, you 

know ; it seemed too awful far away for us to 
have traveled. 

But Tom was full of his discovery, as he 
called it, and said the lions and the sand meant 
the Great Desert, sure. He said he could 'a' 
found out, before we sighted land, that we was 
crowding the land somewheres, if he had 
thought of one thing ; and when we asked him 
what, he said : 

" These clocks. They 're chronometers. 
You always read about them in sea voyages. 
One of them is keeping Grinnage time, and the 
other is keeping St. Louis time, like my watch. 
When we left St. Louis it was four in the after- 
noon by my watch and this clock, and it was 
ten at night by this Grinnage clock. Well, at 
this time of the year the sun sets about seven 
o'clock. Now I noticed the time yesterday 
evening when the sun went down, and it was 
half-past five o'clock by the Grinnage clock, 
and half-past eleven a. m. by my watch and the 
other clock. You see, the sun rose and set 
by my watch in St. Louis, and the Grinnage 
clock was six hours fast: but we 've come so 
far east that it comes within less than half an 
hour of setting by the Grinnage clock, now, and 
I 'm away out — more than four hours and a 


(SEE PAGE 253.) 




half out. You see, that meant that we was 
closing up on the longitude of Ireland, and 
would strike it before long if we was p'inted 
right — which we was n't. No, sir, we 've been 
a-wandering — wandering 'way down south of 
east, and it 's my opinion we are in Africa. 
Look at this map. You see how the shoulder 
of Africa sticks out to the west. Think how 
fast we 've traveled ; if we had gone straight 
east we would be long past England by this 
time. You watch for noon, all of you, and 
we '11 stand up, and when we can't cast a 
shadow we '11 find that this Grinnage clock is 
coming mighty close 
to marking twelve. 
Yes, sir, / think we 're 
in Africa ; and it 's 
just bully." 

Jim was gazing 
down with the glass. 
He shook his head 
and says : 

" Mars Tom, I 
reckon dey 's a mis- 
take som'er's. I hain't 
seen no niggers yit." 

" That 's nothing ; 
they don't live in the 
desert. What is that, 
'way off yonder? Gim- 
me a glass." 

He took a long 
look, and said it was 
like a black string 
stretched across the 
sand, but he could n't 
guess what it was. 

" Well," I says, " I 
reckon maybe you 've 
got a chance, now, to find out whereabouts 
this balloon is, because as like as not that is 
one of these lines here, that 's on the map, that 
you call meridians of longitude, and we can 
drop down and look at its number, and — " 

" Oh, shucks, Huck Finn, I never see such 
a lunkhead as you. Did you s'pose there 's 
meridians of longitude on the earth ? " 

" Tom Sawyer, they 're set down on the map, 
and you know it perfectly well, and here they 
are, and you can see for yourself." 

" Of course they 're on the map, but that 's 
nothing; there ain't any on the ground." 

" Tom, do you know that to be so ? " 

" Certainly I do." 

" Well, then, that map 's a liar again. I 
never see such a liar as that map." 

He fired up at that, and I was ready for him, 
and Jim was warming his opinion, too, and next 
minute we 'd 'a' broke loose on another argu- 
ment, if Tom had n't dropped the glass and 
begun to clap his hands like a maniac and 
sing out — 

" Camels ! — Camels ! " 


So I grabbed a glass, and Jim, too, and took 
a look, but I was disappointed, and says — 
" Camels your granny, they 're spiders." 
" Spiders in a desert, you shad ? Spiders 
walking in a procession ? You don't ever 
reflect, Huck Finn, and I reckon you really 
have n't got anything to reflect with. Don't 
you know we 're as much as a mile up in the 
air, and that that string of crawlers is two or 
three miles away ? Spiders, good land ! Spi- 
ders as big as a cow ? Perhaps you 'd like to 



> c i 

go down and milk one of 'em. But they 're 
camels, just the same. It 's a caravan, that 's 
what it is, and it 's a mile long." 

" Well, then, le' 's go down and look at it. I 
don't believe in it, and ain't going to till I see 
it and know it." 

"All right," he says, and give the command: 
" Lower away." 

As we come slanting down into the hot 
weather, we could see that it was camels, sure 
enough, plodding along, an everlasting string of 
them, with bales strapped to them, and several 
hundred men in long white robes, and a thing- 
like a shawl bound over their heads and hang- 
ing down with tassels and fringes ; and some 
of the men had long guns and some had n't, 
and some was riding and some was walking. 
And the weather — well, it was just roasting. 
And how slow they did creep along! We 
swooped down, now, all of a sudden, and 
stopped about a hundred yards over their 

The men all set up a yell, and some of them 
fell flat on their stomachs, some begun to fire 
their guns at us, and the rest broke and scam- 
pered every which way, and so did the camels. 

We see that we was making trouble, so we 
went up again about a mile, to the cool weather, 
and watched them from there. It took them 
an hour to get together and form the proces- 
sion again; then they started along, but we 
could see by the glasses that they was n't 
paying much attention to anything but us. 
We poked along, looking down at them with 
the glasses, and by and by we see a big sand 
mound, and something like people the other 
side of it, and there was something like a man 
laying on top of the mound, that raised his 
head up every now and then, and seemed to 
be watching the caravan or us, we did n't know 
which. As the caravan got nearer, he sneaked 
down on the other side and rushed to the other 
men and horses — for that is what they was — 
and we see them mount in a hurry ; and next, 
here they come, like a house afire, some with 
lances and some with long guns, and all of 
them yelling the best they could. 

They come a-tearing down onto the caravan, 
and the next minute both sides crashed toge- 
ther and was all mixed up, and there was such 

another popping of guns as you never heard, 
and the air got so full of smoke you could only 
catch glimpses of them struggling together. 
There must 'a' been six hundred men in that bat- 
tle, and it was terrible to see. Then they broke 
up into gangs and groups, fighting tooth and 
nail, and scurrying and scampering around, and 
laying into each other like everything ; and 
whenever the smoke cleared a little you could 
see dead and wounded people and camels scat- 
tered far and wide and all about, and camels 
racing off in every direction. 

At last the robbers see they could n't win, so 
their chief sounded a signal, and all that was 
left of them broke away and went scampering 
across the plain. The last man to go snatched 
up a child and carried it off in front of him on 
his horse, and a woman run screaming and 
begging after him, and followed him away off 
across the plain till she was separated a long 
ways from her people ; but it war n't no use, 
and she had to give it up, and we see her sink 
down on the sand and cover her face with her 
hands. Then Tom took the helium, and started 
for that yahoo, and we come a-whizzing down 
and made a swoop, and knocked him out of the 
saddle, child and all; and he was jarred con- 
siderable, but the child was n't hurt, but laid 
there working its hands and legs in the air like 
a tumble-bug that 's on its back and can't turn 
over. The man went staggering off to overtake 
his horse, and did n't know what had hit him, 
for we was three or four hundred yards up in 
the air by this time. 

We judged the woman would go and get the 
child, now ; but she did n't. We could see her, 
through the glass, still setting there, with her 
head bowed down on her knees ; so of course 
she had n't seen the performance, and thought 
her child was clean gone with the man. She 
was nearly a half a mile from her people, so we 
thought we might go down to the child, which 
was about a quarter of a mile beyond her, and 
snake it to her before the caravan people could 
git to us to do us any harm ; and besides, we 
reckoned they had enough business on their 
hands for one while, anyway, with the wounded. 
We thought we 'd chance it, and we did. We 
swooped down and stopped, and Jim shinned 
down the ladder and fetched up the kid, which 




was a nice fat little thing, and in a noble good 
humor, too, considering it was just out of a 
battle and been tumbled off of a horse ; and then 
we started for the mother, and stopped back of 
her and tolerable nearby, and Jim slipped down 
and crept up easy, and when he was close back 
of her the child goo-goo'd, the way a child 
does, and she heard it, and whirled and fetched 
a shriek of joy, and made a jump for the kid and 
snatched it and hugged it, and dropped it and 
hugged Jim, and then snatched off a gold chain 
and hung it around Jim's neck, and hugged 
him again, and jerked up the child again, a-sob- 
bing and glorifying all the time ; and Jim he 
shoved for the ladder and up it, and in a min- 
ute we was back up in the sky and the woman 
was staring up, with the back of her head be- 


tween her shoulders and the child with its arms 
locked around her neck. And there she stood, 
as long as we was in sight a-sailing away in 
the sky. 

Chapter VII. 

" Noon ! " says Tom, and so it was. His 
shadder was just a blot around his feet. We 

looked, and the Grinnage clock was so close to 
twelve the difference did n't amount to nothing. 
So Tom said London was right north of us or 
right south of us, one or t'other, and he reck- 
oned by the weather and the sand and the 
camels it was north ; and a good many miles 
north, too ; as many as from New York to the 
city of Mexico, he guessed. 

Jim said he reckoned a balloon was a good 
deal the fastest thing in the world, unless it 
might be some kinds of birds — a wild pigeon, 
maybe, or a railroad. 

But Tom said he had read about railroads 
in England going nearly a hundred miles an 
hour for a little ways, and there never was 
a bird in the world that could do that — 
except one, and that was a flea. 

"A flea? Why, Mars 
Tom, in de fust place 
he ain't a bird, strickly 
speakin' — " 

" He ain't a bird, eh ? 
Well, then, what is he ? " 
" I don't rightly know, 
Mars Tom, but I speck 
he 's only jist a' animal. 
No, I reckon dat won't 
do, nuther, he ain't big 
enough for a' animal. 
He mus' be a bug. Yas- 
sir, dat 's what he is, he 's 
^£ __ a bug." 

" I bet he ain't, but 
let it go. What 's your 
second place ? " 

" Well, in de second 
place, birds is creturs dat 
goes a long ways, but a 
flea don't." 

" He don't, don't he ? 
Come, now, what is a 
long distance, if you 
know ? " 

" Why, it 's miles, and lots of 'em — anybody 
knows dat." 

" Can't a man walk miles ? " 
" Yassir, he kin." 
" As many as a railroad ? " 
" Yassir, if you give him time." 
"Can't a flea?" 




"Well, — I s'pose so — ef you gives him heaps finger on him. Now that's a common, ordi- 

of time." nary, third-class flea's gait ; but you take an 

" Now you begin to see, don't you, that dis- Eyetalian Jirst-c\, that 's been the pet of the 

tafice ain't the thing to judge by, at all ; it 's the nobility all his life, and has n't ever knowed 


(SEE PAGE 256.) 

time it takes to go the distance in that counts, 
ain't it?" 

" Well, hit do look sorter so, but I would n't 
'a' b'lieved it, Mars Tom." 

" It 's a matter of proportion, that 's what it is ; 
and when you come to gauge a thing's speed by 
its size, where 's your bird and your man and 
your railroad, alongside of a flea ? The fastest 
man can't run more than about ten miles in an 
hour — not much over ten thousand times his 
own length. But all the books says any com- 
mon ordinary third-class flea can jump a hun- 
dred and fifty times his own length ; yes, and he 
can make five jumps a second too, — seven hun- 
dred and fifty times his own length, in one little 
second — for he don't fool away any time stop- 
ping and starting — he does them both at the 
same time; you '11 see, if you try to put your 

what want or sickness or exposure was, and he 
can jump more than three hundred times his 
own length, and keep it up all day, five such 
jumps every second, which is fifteen hundred 
times his own length. Well, suppose a man 
could go fifteen hundred times his own length 
in a second — say, a mile and a half. It 's 
ninety miles a minute ; it 's considerable more 
than five thousand miles an hour. Where 's 
your man now? — yes, and your bird, and your 
railroad, and your balloon ? Laws, they don't 
amount to shucks 'longside of a flea. A flea is 
just a comet b'iled down small." 

Jim was a good deal astonished, and so was 
1. Jim said — 

" Is dem figgers jist edjackly true, en no jokin' 
en no lies, Mars Tom ?" 

" Yes, they are ; they 're perfectly true." 

= 56 



.•■'rt--V,. H 


" Well, den, honey, a body 's got to respec' 
a flea. I ain't had no respec' for um befo', 
sca'sely, but dey ain't no gittin' roun' it, dey do 
deserve it, dat 's certain." 

"Well, I bet they do. They 've got ever so 
much more sense, and brains, and brightness, in 
proportion to their size, than any other cretur 
in the world. A person can learn them 'most 
anything; and they learn it quicker than any 
other cretur, too. They 've been learnt to haul 
little carriages in harness, and go this way 
and that way and t'other way according to 
their orders; yes, and to march and drill like 
soldiers, doing it as exact, according to orders, 
as soldiers does it. They 've been learnt to do 
all sorts of hard and troublesome things. 
S'pose you could cultivate a flea up to the 
size of a man, and keep his natural smartness 
a-growing and a-growing right along up, big- 
ger and bigger, and keener and keener, in the 
same proportion — where 'd the human race be, 
do you reckon ? That flea would be President 
of the United States, and you could n't any more 
prevent it than you can prevent lightning." 

" My Ian', Mars Tom, I never knowed dey 
was so much to de beas'. No, sir, I never had 
no idea of it, and dat 's de fac'." 


" There 's more to him, by a long sight, than 
there is to any other cretur, man or beast, in 
proportion to size. He 's the interestingest of 

i8 94 -] 



them all. People have so much to say about 
an ant's strength, and an elephant's, and a 
locomotive's. Shucks, they don't begin with a 
flea. He can lift two or three hundred times 
his own weight. And none of them can come 
anywhere near it. And moreover, he has got 
notions of his own, and is very particular, and 
you can't fool him ; his instinct, or his judg- 
ment, or whatever it is, is perfectly sound and 
clear, and don't ever make a mistake. People 
think all humans are alike to a flea. It ain't 
so. There 's folks that he won't go near, hun- 
gry or not hungry, and I 'm one of them. I 've 
never had one of them on me in my life." 

" Mars Tom ! " 

" It 's so ; I ain't joking." 

" Well, sah, I hain't ever heard de likes o' 
dat, befo'." 

Jim could n't believe it, and I could n't; so 
we had to drop down to the sand and git a 
supply and see. Tom was right. They went 
for me and Jim by the thousand, but not a one 
of them lit on Tom. There war n't no explain- 
ing it, but there it was and there war n't no get- 
ting around it. He said it had always been 
just so, and he 'd just as soon be where there 
was a million of them as not ; they 'd never 
touch him nor bother him. 

We went up to the cold weather to freeze 'em 
out, and stayed a little spell, and then come 
back to the comfortable weather and went 
lazying along twenty or twenty-five miles an 
hour, the way we 'd been doing for the last 
few hours. The reason was, that the longer we 
was in that solemn, peaceful desert, the more 
the hurry and fuss got kind of soothed down in 
us, and the more happier and contented and 
satisfied we got to feeling, and the more we 
got to liking the desert, and then loving it. So 
we had cramped the speed down, as I was 
saying, and was having a most noble good 
lazy time, sometimes watching through the 
glasses, sometimes stretched out on the lockers 
reading, sometimes taking a nap. 

It did n't seem like we was the same lot that 
was in such a state to find land and git 
ashore, but it was. But we had got over that 
— clean over it. We was used to the balloon, 
now, and not afraid any more, and did n't 
want to be anywheres else. Why, it seemed 
Vol. XXL — 33. 

just like home; it 'most seemed as if I had 
been born and raised in it, and Jim and 
Tom said the same. And always I had had 
hateful people around me, a-nagging at me, 
and pestering of me, and scolding, and find- 
ing fault, and fussing and bothering, and 
sticking to me, and keeping after me, and 
making me do this, and making me do that 
and t'other, and always selecting out the 
things I did n't want to do, and then giving 
me Sam Hill because I shirked and done 
something else, and just aggravating the life 
out of a body all the time ; but up here in the 
sky it was so still and sunshiny and lovely, and 
plenty to eat, and plenty of sleep, and strange 
things to see, and no nagging and no pestering, 
and no good people, and just holiday all the 
time. Land, I war n't in no hurry to git out 
and buck at civilization again. Now, one of 
the worst things about civilization is, that any- 
body that gits a letter with trouble in it comes 
and tells you all about it and makes you feel 
bad, and the newspapers fetches you the trou- 
bles of everybody all over the world, and keeps 
you down-hearted and dismal 'most all the 
time, and it 's such a heavy load for a person. 
I hate them newspapers; and I hate letters; 
and if I had my way I would n't allow no- 
body to load his troubles onto other folks he 
ain't acquainted with, on t'other side of the 
world, that way. Well, up in a balloon there 
ain't any of that, and it 's the darlingest place 
there is. 

We had supper, and that night was one of 
the prettiest nights I ever see. The moon 
made it just like daylight, only a heap softer ; 
and once we see a lion standing all alone by 
himself, just all alone on the earth, it seemed 
like, and his shadder laid on the sand by him 
like a puddle of ink. That 's the kind of moon- 
light to have. 

Mainly we laid on our backs and talked; 
we did n't want to go to sleep. Tom said we 
was right in the midst of the Arabian Nights, 
now. He said it was right along here that 
one of the cutest things in that book hap- 
pened ; so we looked down and watched while 
he told about it, because there ain't anything 
that is so interesting to look at as a place that 
a beok has talked about. It was a tale about 


a camel-driver that had lost his camel, and he 
come along in the desert and met a man, and 
says — 

" Have you run across a stray camel to-day ? " 

And the man says — 

" Was he blind in his left eye ? " 

" Yes." 

" Had he lost an upper front tooth ? " 

«' Yes." 

"" Was his off hind leg lame ? " 

•" Yes." 

*' Was he loaded with millet-seed on one side 
and honey on the other ? " 

" Yes, but you need n't go into no more de- 
tails — that 's the one, and I 'm in a hurry. 
Where did you see him ? " 

" I hain't seen him at all," the man says. 

" Hain't seen him at all ? How can you de- 
scribe him so close, then ? " 

" Because when a person knows how to use 
his eyes, everything has got a meaning to it; 
but most people's eyes ain't any good to them. 
I knowed a camel had been along, because I 
seen his track. I knowed he was lame in his 
off hind leg because he had favored that foot 
and trod light on it, and his track showed it. 
I knowed he was blind on his left side because 
he only nibbled the grass on the right side of 
the trail. I knowed he had lost an upper front 
tooth because where he bit into the sod his 
teeth-print showed it. The millet-seed sifted 
out on one side — the ants told me that ; the 
honey leaked out on the other — the flies told 
me that. I know all about your camel, but I 
hain't seen him." 

Jim says — 

" Go on, Mars Tom, hit 's a mighty good 
tale, and powerful interestin'." 

" That 's all," Tom says. 

" All? " says Jim, astonished. " What 'come 
o' de camel ? " 

•• I don't know." 

(To be 


" Mars Tom, don't de tale say ? " 

'• No." 

J im puzzled a minute, then he says — 

" Well ! Ef dat ain't de beatenes' tale ever 7" 
struck. Jist gits to de place whah de intrust is 
gittin' red-hot, en down she breaks. Why, Mars 
Tom, dey ain't no sense in a tale dat acts like 
dat. Hain't you got no idea whether de man 
got de camel back er not ? " 

" No, I have n't." 

I see, myself, there war n't no sense in the 
tale, to chop square off, that way, before it 
come to anything, but I war n't going to say 
so, because I could see Tom was souring up 
pretty fast over the way it flatted out and the 
way Jim had popped onto the weak place 
in it, and I don't think it 's fair for everybody 
to pile onto a feller when he 's down. But Tom 
he whirls on me and says — 

" What do you think of the tale ? " 

Of course, then, I had to come out and make 
a clean breast and say it did seem to me, too, same 
as it did to Jim, that as long as the tale stopped 
square in the middle and never got to no place, 
it really war n't worth the trouble of telling. 

Tom 's chin dropped on his breast, and 'stead 
of being mad, as I reckoned he 'd be, to hear 
me scoff at his tale that way, he seemed to be 
only sad; and he says — 

" Some people can see, and some can't — 
just as that man said. Let alone a camel, if a 
cyclone had gone by, you duffers would n't 'a' 
noticed the track." 

I don't know what he meant by that, and he 
did n't say; it was just one of his irrulevances, 
I reckon — he was full of them, sometimes, 
when he was in a close place and could n't see 
no other way out — but I did n't mind. We 'd 
spotted the soft place in that tale sharp enough, 
he could n't git away from that little fact. It 
graveled him like the nation, too, I reckon, 
much as he tried not to let on. 




By Hezekiah Butterworth. 

Have you heard of the tropical Isles of June, 
The coral isles with their splendors of palms, 
Where the sails hang loose in the languorous 

And a dusky sun is the rising moon, 
And the Southern Cross hangs over the sea 
Like the jewels of Heaven ? Ah, me ! ah, me ! 
Those gardens of gold in the opal main, 
How they tempted the souls of the pilots of 

Spain ! 
But as John the old Sailor was wont to say, 
When he told old tales in his comical way, 
" 'T is only the gold that does good that is 

good — 
And only the rightful gold is gain. 
Alas for the spoil of the pilots of Spain ! 
T was fool's gold all." 


Our John was a sailor, Sailor John, 
A grizzly old sailor of Provincetown Bay, 
And one queer old tale that he used to tell 
By the bright fire-dogs to the boys now gone, 

And the fisher folk — I remember well. 
He would tell it to us in his odd old way. 
After the revels on Christmas Day, 
And at evening after the hours of play. 
He would lock his hands and strike them 

His knees, like this : chink, chink, chink,. 

It sounds like coins of gold, I know, 
It sounds like coins of gold — but oh, 
When you open your hands there is no- 
thing there 
But a goldless chasm of empty air ! — 
'T was fool's gold all. 


Our John the sailor, Sailor John, 
He used to tell the tale this way, 
In a very slow and deliberate way, 
After the storms upon Provincetown Bay : 
" 'T is about Sir Francis Drake of the Tay, 
Who was born in a hut beside the Tavy, 
A famous salt in Elizabeth's day, 
The old sea-dog of the British Navy. 




He guarded the coast of England well, 
And haunted the seas, that old invader, 
And gathered spoils from the Spanish war, 
From the Isles of June to Cristobel, 

I 'm growing old and my veins are cold, 
But still my soul is athirst for gold. 
Let me go once more to the Spanish Main, 
To isles of the sun, and the golden rain, 


And flouted King Philip off Trafalgar, 
And scattered the ships of the Great Armada. 
The first to sail the Pacific Sea, 
And first to smoke tobacco, was he. 

"And he said at last, ' Our coast is hilly, 
And the northern seas are dark and chilly; 

And rob the galleons old of Spain.' 
He went and died 'mid the isles, ah me! 
And his white ship scudded across the sea, 
The " Golden Hinde " in the western wind, 
And never again to his home came he — 
But only his gold brought home again. 
'T was fool's gold all. 

i8 9 4.] 




" Old Plymouth stands by the windy sea, 
As lovely a city as ever was seen. 
And fair are the churches of Plymouth dean,* 
And tall was the church that stood on the 

" Now lonely old Susan lived on the moor, 
Away from the tower of Plymouth Green, 
Away from the roads of Plymouth dean. 
A little old woman and poor was she, 
Whose father had died on the stormy sea, 
And she went to the church on each Lord's 

Though her cottage was many a mile away — 
To the sailors' church that looked o'er the bay, 
The church of the storms and wild sea- 
And she was hired to open the pews. 
It made the church seem friendly and free, 
To open the pews by charity. 
The standing committee who seated the 

And the grim old bell-ringer who lived in 

the steeple, 
And the beadle who kept evil-doers in awe, 
And tickled the sleeper's nose with a straw, 
And made lazy old women jump up in their 

And wake all their neighbors with spasms 

and screams — 
They were worthy folks all, but not equal 

in dues 
To the wise little woman who opened the 

And the good folks on Sunday each gave 

her a penny, 
And at weddings and Christmases twice as 

And at Hallowe'en they gave her a guinea. 

" Now, one autumn morn, as she came to 
the church, 
The sailors, lingering round the porch, 
Under the trees strange stories told 
Of Sir Francis Drake and his shipload of gold; 
And Susan stopped and listened awhile, 
Then opened the pews in the long, broad aisle, 
Not over-pleased at the wonderful news. 

' 'T is only the gold that does good that is gain, 
And I want not the gold of the pilots of 

Said the wise little woman who opened the 



" 'T was in glimmering September — the hour, 

near noon ; 
The prayers had been read; the clerk gave 

out a tune, 
And stood up and looked through the window, 

and then 
His eyes oped as though he 'd ne'er close 

them again; 
His mouth opened, too, and his lips rounded, 

And left on his face just the round letter O. 
Then he winked to the beadle, and winked to 

the squire, 
And their eyes sought the window, and 

turned from the choir. 
The horizon was broken — there were sails in 

the air; 
And the cross of St. George on the breeze 

floated fair. 
Then arose from the quay a tumultuous 

And the heads of the singers went bobbing 

And no one looked upward, but every one 



" The children grew restless, the tirewomen bold, 
And the beadle cried out, ' Run, run ! I 've 

no doubt 
'T is Sir Francis Drake and his shipload of 

gold ! 
It will make us all rich, and we '11 have a new 

Then the beadle ran out; and the clerk and 

the squire 
Said, ' We '11 now put new shingles upon 

the old spire ! ' 
Ran the sailors and women and tradespeo- 
ple all ; 
And the deaconess, who could not her feelings 

Said, ' Run, and it may be I '11 get a new dress. ' 

Dean, as here used, means "a small valley.' 




Till — oh, 't is a scandalous story to tell — 
Till no one was left save quaint Rector Mews 
And the wise little woman who opened the 

pews — 
Only she, and the figures of saints on the 

Then the rector said, ' Susan, we might as 

well run ; 
There 's a ship coming in from the isles of 

the sun. 

And he doffed his long robe in a hurry, 

and he 
Ran after the others all down to the quay. 

Susan heard the men shouting on roof-top 

and shore, 
The boom of the cannon, the answering gun. 
But she turned from the church to her 

thatched-cottage door, 
And was thankful her riches had made her 
so poor. 

" Uneventful years passed, 
and dull was the 
news ; 
And the wise little 
woman still 
opened the 
And Sir Francis 
again from 
the port sail- 
ed away, 
Far off from the 
hills of the 
Tavy and 
And at last the 
good people 
looked out 
on the main 
For his ship to 
appear in the 
again ; 
And the parson 
still preached on the sins 
of the Jews. 
== From the Isles of June came 

not gold, spice, nor news; 

'only she, AND THE FIGL'RES of saints on the wall.' 

It bodes good to us all, this remarkable 

news ; 
I '11 run, while you shut up the pulpit and 

'T is not every day I am called to behold 
A ship from the Indies all loaded with gold ! 
'T will make us so rich Ave '11 all things 

make new, 
And have a new hassock in every pew ! ' 

And the wise little woman 

who opened the pews 
Used to say, ' You must search for gold on 

your knees, 
And look up to Heaven, not over the seas 
For gold-laden ships from the bright Carib- 

The riches that galleons bring over the deep. 
'T is only the gold that does good that is 


i8 94 -] 



And the gold that we covet and hoard up 
and keep, 

That 's fool's gold all. 1 


" The St. Martin birds came to the church- 
tower tall, 

And the purple-winged swallows that lived 
in the wall; 

The mavis sang sweet, and the green hedge- 
rows burned, 

And the wayside brooks into violets turned ; 

The lilies tossed in the scented air, 

The peach-boughs reddened, and whitened 
the pear. 

Again on a Sunday came wonderful news, 

And the little old woman who opened the pews 

Again heard the shoutings of joy on the quay, 

The cannon and answering gun on the sea. 

But half-mast hung the flag on that battle- 
ship old. 

Half-mast ! Who had died 'mid the cabins 
of gold ? 

The grand ship rode into the harbor, and still 

Grew the wharves and the towers and the 
oak-shaded hill, 

And the news came at last, 't was Sir 
Francis had died 

'Mid his cabins of gold at the last Christ- 
' Sir Francis ? ' they said. ' Let the old bell 
be tolled.' 

And the old bell began to toll — toll — toll, 

Toll — toll — toll -- toll. 

We hope there was gold in Sir Francis's soul. 

And the people all turned from the long, 
windy quay — 

With tears turned away from the May- 
pleasant sea, 

And talked of the brave old sea-lord who 
had died 

'Neath the Southern Cross at Christmas-tide, 

And whose form had been sunk in the 
deep, moving sea 

In the festival days of Nativity. 


" When the folks sought the church to talk 

of the news, 
Came the wise little woman who opened 

the pews, 
And she said to the parson, ' I 'm sorry indeed ; 
'T is not that kind of gold that our spirits 

most need, 
But the gold of the Word, the heart and 

the deed. 
The Sea Knight has only that true gold 

That his honor refused, or his heart gave 

Let us look no more to the stores of the seas, 
To the isles of the sun or the bright 

Caribbees — 
Let us envy no more the rich galleons of Spain, 
'T is only the gold that does good that is gain. 
The wealth that avarice seeks to find 
Is like the gold of the Golden Hinde; 
Chink, chink, chink, chink ; who it commands 
Will stand at last with empty hands — 
T is fool's gold all ! ' " 


By E. L. Sylvester. 

As I went strolling down the street, 
Aprctlr maid 1 danced [o mee.1 , 
1 doffed my hat and Ja id Good d&y" 
Wljen h\ jhe [urncd and ranamw' 


The babies small 

Tile cookies out °1 feacl] 

Bu[ k/ c LV1 rd b>' e 
If babies (iy 

They'll have a clozcii each 




By Mrs. C. V. Jamison. 

Auilwr of "Lady Jane." 

[Begun in t/ie May number. ] 

Chapter XXV. 


A few days after the exhibition on the front 
steps, Madam Ainsworth was sitting in the 
drawing-room talking very earnestly with her 
old friend, and her voice was raised somewhat 
above its usual well-bred level. 

" If they had consulted me, it never would 
have happened," she said decidedly. " They 
were too hasty, and now they regret it." 

" Naturally they would like their own son to 
be the elder," the friend placidly answered. 

" Certainly they would ; but it 's not only 
that. They are tired of the boy; he has n't turned 
out as they expected. As he grows older, very 
common traits develop in his character; but 
what else can you expect from a child brought 
up by an old colored woman ? Lately he has 
had a little negro thief here, to whom he is de- 
voted. We have had an actual struggle to keep 
the little fellow away from the premises; and even 
now, I dare say, Philip meets him outside." 

" How fortunate the little heiress is n't here 
this winter ! " remarked the friend. 

" Oh, if Lucille had n't gone abroad with her 
mother, I should have insisted on his being sent 
away. The poor child suffered enough through 
him last winter," said Madam Ainsworth, an- 
grily ; " and now Edward and Laura are as 
miserable as they can be, and all on account of 
that troublesome boy. They don't love him 
now, as they thought they did. I '11 give them 
the credit of thinking they were fond of him ; 
but they never really loved the boy, and now 
that they have one of their own, they knoiv it." 

"It 's a very unfortunate situation, is it not?" 
said the friend. " They can't very well get rid 
of him, can they ? " 

" No, that 's just it; they can't. I should not 
be sorry if he should take it into his head to 
run off with some of his strange companions 
where they could never hear from him again." 

" Dear me, and to think of all they have 
done for him! It would be a terrible change 
for the boy after his life of luxury," said the 
friend, smoothly. 

" Oh, I think he would prefer a gipsy life. 
There 's no doubt in my mind of his being the 
child of very common parents; and to think 
that Edward should adopt him without know- 
ing ! " 

" It 's going to be very bad for their own son 
to have such a boy for an elder brother — for 
you know children are so imitative." 

"Yes, it 's dreadful any way you look at it," 
returned Madam Ainsworth, with a heavy sigh. 
" And just now, when I could be so happy with 
my grandson, to have it all spoiled by that little 
waif, that little intruder into my family ! And as 
far as I can see, there 's no way to get rid of 

When Madam Ainsworth and her friend left 
the drawing-room, after some more confidential 
chatter, there was a slight movement behind 
the curtain that draped the alcove of the win- 
dow, and Philip slipped out silently and timidly. 
He was very pale, and his eyes had a wild, 
frightened look. He had been sitting there 
watching the people in the street when the old 
ladies entered, and he had unwillingly heard 
every word of their conversation. 

Later in the day, when Madam Ainsworth 
was returning from a visit of charity, as her 
carriage crossed Seventh Avenue she saw 
Philip and Lilybel standing on a comer talk- 
ing together very earnestly. " It 's just as I 
thought," she said to herself; "he sees that 
little ragamuffin outside. What in the world 

Vol. XXI.— 34. 





can he wish to say to him ? I really dread the 
result of having that boy under our roof!" 

When Philip entered the drawing-room just 
before dinner, they all noticed how excited he 
appeared, and how carelessly he was dressed. 

" That boy is not fit to come into the draw- 
ing-room," said Madam Ainsworth in a low, 
vexed voice to her daughter-in-law. " He is so 
untidy, and utterly indifferent to his dress ! " 

" I 'm very sorry," returned Mrs. Ainsworth, 
flushing a little. " Perhaps it 's my fault. I 'm 
afraid I have neglected him lately; he certainly 
has changed in appearance." 

Philip noticed Madam Ainsworth's look of 
disgust, and heard her unkind words ; for his 
senses were very acute, and his heart very sore. 
He was looking at a book, and he bent his 
head lower over it to hide the tears that sprang 
to his eyes. When dinner was announced, he 
walked out silently behind the others, and took 
his accustomed place without a word. 

Bassett was distressed because the boy ate 
nothing; and when the dessert came out, he slip- 
ped into a drawer a generous plate of maca- 
roons and bonbons, saying to himself, " The 
little chap shall 'ave these to-night. 'E 's hill 
and un'appy. I 'm going to cheer 'im hup with 

While Bassett was putting away the silver, 
Philip crept softly into the pantry, and stood 
near the old man, watching him wistfully. He 
wanted to say something, but his heart was too 
full. When Bassett took out the bonbons and 
gave them to him, he could not control himself; 
his lips quivered pitifully, and large tears rolled 
over his face. 

" Why — why, Master Philip, my little man, 
what 's the matter ? What 's 'appened ? " cried 
Bassett, astonished at such signs of trouble in 
his usually merry little friend. 

"Oh, nothing, Mr. Butler; but — but you 're 
so good to me, and it makes me cry now 
when — when any one is good to me." 

" Yes, I see, my poor little lad. You hain't 
as rugged as you used to be; I see you 're 
losing your happetite, an' that won't do. You 
must n't fret. It 's halong of that new boy ; 
they 're hall so taken hup with 'im that they 
don't think of no one else." 

" Oh, I don't mind that, Mr. Butler. Well," 

with a heavy sigh and a fresh burst of tears, 
"I 'm — I 'm going to my room now. Good 
night, Mr. Butler, good night." Still he lin- 
gered with his hand on the door. Suddenly he 
turned to Bassett, and said, almost entreatingly, 
" I wish — I wish you 'd shake hands with me, 
Mr. Butler." 

" Why, bless your 'eart, my dear little lad, 
hof course I will ! " And Bassett gave him 
such a hearty clasp that Philip smiled through 
his tears. 

" And — and you won't — you won't forget 
me, will you ? " 

" Forget you? Why, 'ow you do talk! 'Ow 
am I a-going to forget you when I see you 
hevery day ? " 

"But when I 'm not here — when — when 
I go away, you '11 stand up for me ? You '11 
say I was n't a bad boy, won't you ? " 

" That I will, Master Philip. I '11 stand hup 
for you as long as I 've a leg to stand hon." 

"Oh, thank you! Good night; and thank 
you for the candy and cake." And with a look 
eloquent of mingled sorrow and affection, Philip 
hurried out. 

When he had gone, Bassett stood for some 
time looking thoughtfully at the forks in his 
hand ; then he muttered to himself, " Hit 's too 
bad, the way they slight that pretty, kind- 
'earted little chap. An' what 's 'e got in 'is 
'ead to-night ? 'E 's that blue 'e halmost 
made me cry myself. I must try and cheer 'im 
hup to-morrow." 

When Philip reached his room, he looked 
around him nervously ; then he opened the 
door cautiously, and listened. They were all 
below in the drawing-room. There were visitors. 
Once in a while he heard the sound of laughter 
and conversation. They were all very much 
engaged; they were not thinking of him. After 
standing silent a moment in deep thought, he 
went to a drawer, and from the very bottom of 
it he drew out the red-and-yellow silk kerchief 
belonging to the " children." This, with a 
thick woolen one which he wore in cold 
weather to protect his throat, he wrapped care- 
fully around the cage, and tied securely. Then 
he took a small bag which Mrs. Ainsworth had 
given him for his school-books, and lifting from 
the upper shelf of his wardrobe a paper box, he 




removed from it the crumpled funeral wreath, 
with the motto " A ma mere" enveloped in the 
piece of crape — Dea's last gift; these he care- 
fully folded in paper and deposited in the 
bottom of the bag. On his table lay the little 
Bible and prayer-book — Toinette's gifts; these 
he also placed with the wreath. Then he 
opened his small safe, and taking out his 


savings, which he had hoarded with great self- 
denial, he counted them over and over; there 
was not so much as he thought he had, but he 
had drawn heavily on them to supply Lilybel's 
exorbitant demands. However, he put what 
there was in his pocket-book, and that, with 
Bassett's paper of bonbons, he dropped into 
the bag with his other treasures. From his 
wardrobe he selected his oldest 
suit, his oldest shoes and cap, and 
when he had put them on, he hesi- 
tated a moment over the fur coat. 
It was so warm — but no ; it had 
cost a great deal : he would not 
take it. He hung it up, and in- 
stead of it he selected a plain little 
ulster. It was thick and warm, but 
not so warm as the rejected fur coat. 
When he was dressed, he open- 
ed the door and listened. There 
was no one on the back landing, 
and he knew he could slip out that 
way without being seen. So he 
took the "children" in one hand 
and the bag in the other, — they 
were his own little belongings, and 
they were all he had, — and silently 
and tremblingly he crept, like a lit- 
tle culprit, down the back stairs and 
out into the street. 

It was early in March, and a 
wretched, drizzling night, half rain 
and half snow. Philip shivered 
and coughed as he stepped upon 
the sidewalk. For a moment he 
hesitated, then with a last sorrow- 
ful look at the luxurious home he 
was leaving, he went out in the cold 
and darkness, with only Pere Josef's 
little "children " for company. 

Chapter XXVI. 


The next morning after Philip's 
departure, Madam Ainsworth and 
her daughter-in-law were sitting at 
the breakfast-table alone. Neither 
of the ladies ate much, and both 
seemed preoccupied and troubled. 




When the meal was nearly over, Mrs. Ains- 
worth looked up suddenly and said, as if it had 
just occurred to her, " Why, where is Philip 
this morning ? He is always so punctual, I 'm 
afraid he is ill ! " 

" If you please, Madam," remarked Bassett, 
with a little tremor in his voice, " I will go to 
'is room and hinquire." 

" Yes, go," replied Madam Ainsworth, petu- 
lantly; '-and tell him to come down immedi- 
ately — that we have nearly finished breakfast. 
I hope the boy is n't going to be dilatory. It 
will be very trying if he is." 

" He never has been," said Mrs. Ainsworth, 
excusingly ; " he is always down before we are. 
I notice he coughs lately. I 'm afraid he is not 
well ; I really must consult the doctor. I con- 
fess I am worried about him." 

" Oh, he has a little cold, I suppose," said 
Madam Ainsworth, indifferently; " but it 's not 
his health I should worry about." 

" Why, what has he done now ? " asked Mrs. 
Ainsworth, surprised. " I hope there is no new 
trouble"; but before her mother-in-law could 
reply, Bassett entered hurriedly and uncere- 

"The room 's hempty!" he exclaimed; "and 
Master Philip 's gone ! " 

The old man was pale and trembled visibly. 
His strange manner alarmed Mrs. Ainsworth. 
" Gone ! " she cried, starting up excitedly. 
'• What do you mean ? Gone where ? " 

" Oh, I don't know where 'e 's gone, poor 
little lad," replied Bassett, in a broken voice. 
" Hall I know is that 'is room is hempty, an' 
that 'e did n't sleep hin 'is bed; 'e must 'ave 
left last night." 

" What ! Has he been gone all night ? Out 
alone in the dark and cold ! Oh, what can 
have happened to him ? " gasped Mrs. Ains- 
worth, pale and trembling. " He must have met 
with some dreadful accident to keep him away 
all night ! " 

" Hit was not han haccident, Madam," said 
the butler, gravely. " Hin my hopinion, Mas- 
ter Philip 'as gone with the hintention of stay- 
ing, because 'e 'as taken 'is cage of little mice 
with 'im." 

'• Run away ! Just what I expected he would 
do!" exclaimed Madam Ainsworth. She was 

so excited that she quite forgot Bassett was in 
the room. 

" Please don't condemn him until you know," 
pleaded Mrs. Ainsworth. " I can't think he 
has gone of his own will, he loved us so, and 
was so — so grateful and happy." 

" I beg your pardon, Madam," interposed 
Bassett, decidedly. " Hif I may be allowed to 
say hit, Master Philip 'as n't been 'appy for 
some time. I don't know what was hin 'is little 
mind ; but, now I think of hit, I might 'ave 
known that something was going to 'appen by 
the way 'e came to me in the pantry last night, 
an' hasked me to stand hup for 'im when 'e 
was gone." 

"Oh, you knew it, did you?" interrupted 
Madam Ainsworth, severely. "And you never 
told us! Really, Bassett, you astonish me!" 

"No; I did n't know nothink, Madam," re- 
turned Bassett, firmly. " I honly thought the 
pretty little lad was hill, an' down hin spirits, 
an' I tried to cheer 'im hup; then, when 'e said 
good night, 'e — 'e was a-crying." 

" Did he say anything, Bassett ? Did he tell 
you where he was going ? " asked Mrs. Ains- 
worth, anxiously. 

" Not a word, Madam. 'E did n't even say 
that 'e was going; 'e honly 'inted at somethink." 

" Oh, I am to blame! It is my fault!" cried 
Mrs. Ainsworth, regretfully. " Since I have had 
Baby to care for, I have neglected the poor 
boy. I did n't mean to, but I have. I have 
driven him away ! What shall I do ? How 
shall I find him ? " and Mrs. Ainsworth looked 
appealingly at her mother-in-law. 

" My dear Laura, don't be foolish. It is 
absurd to make a fuss about that boy," said 
Madam Ainsworth, coldly. " The ungrateful 
little creature has grown tired of your kindness, 
and he has gone back to his former condition. 
In plain words, he has run away. I saw him 
again with that little negro only yesterday. They 
were plotting then ; and, if you remember, he 
seemed guilty last night — he was ashamed to 
look one in the face." 

" I remember that he appeared excited and 
troubled, but I should not say that that was an 
indication of guilt. I can't understand it; I 
can't think he would go voluntarily, and with- 
out a word to me. I wish Edward were here. 




I don't know what to do; I don't know what 
steps to take ! " cried Mrs. Ainsworth, despair- 

" Bassett, did you notice whether he had 
taken his clothing ? " asked Madam Ainsworth. 

" I should say, Madam, that 'e 'ad honly 
took what 'e 'ad hon. I looked hin 'is ward- 
robe; hit was full, an' 'is little fur coat was 

" Oh, well, then you can depend on his com- 
ing back. He has gone off on some expedition 
with those friends of his. When he is tired 
and hungry he will return." 

" But we ought to do something now," urged 
Mrs. Ainsworth. " I can't let the matter rest 
and wait for him to come back." 

" I should advise you to do so," returned 
Madam xAinsworth, indifferently. " I suspect 
that the bootblack and the little negro have 
persuaded the boy to go off and exhibit those 
horrid little animals. One can't tell what ab- 
surd ideas they have put in his head. In any 
case, I should advise you to wait at least for a 
few days, and avoid all talk and excitement. 
It would be ridiculous to make a great fuss, 
and then have him come back, hungry and 
dirty, just as the little negro did. No doubt it 
is one of his nice little tricks to surprise and 
alarm us." 

" I wish I could think so," said Mrs. Ains- 
worth, sadly. " I wish he would come back 
this moment, well and unharmed." 

" And I wish he would stay away," thought 
Madam Ainsworth, as she left the breakfast- 
room. " I think we should be well rid of 

Bassett went about with a very sorrowful face. 
Thinking of Philip's strange manner the pre- 
ceding evening, he felt that the boy had said 
good-by instead of good night. " Pretty little 
lad, 'e was that un'appy that 'e could n't bear 
hit hany longer," thought Bassett, as he worked 
and pondered: " so 'e just took them little hani- 
mals and went hofif all halone last night. Dear 
me, what 's to become hof a delicate little chap 
like that!" 

Several days passed. Philip did not return, 
and nothing was heard of him. The boot- 
black was questioned concerning Lilybel, but 
he could give no information; the little negro 

had vanished too. Evidently he and Philip had 
gone together. 

When Mrs. Ainsworth examined the boy's 
room, she was fully convinced that he did not 
intend to return. She missed the funeral 
wreath, the Bible and prayer-book, and she 
knew that he had gone forever and taken his 
treasures with him. In spite of Madam Ains- 
worth's advice, she was not satisfied to let the 
matter rest. After a few days had passed, and 
there was no news of the missing boy, she wrote 
to her husband for advice, and at the same 
time employed a detective to try to find Philip. 
She was conscience-stricken and dismayed 
when she fully realized how she had neglected 
the child and left him to himself. " It is my 
fault," she would think regretfully. " He had a 
beautiful nature. He was so affectionate, so gen- 
erous, I could have made anything of him. He 
would have been good and happy if I had not 
seemed to forget him — if I had not neglected 
my duty. If he has really gone away, I alone 
am to blame." 

Chapter XXVII. 


When Pere Josef, after long and weary jour- 
neyings through the mountainous regions of 
New Mexico, returned at last to the little mis- 
sion of San Miguel, he found a letter, written 
months before, from his friend Pere Martin of 
St. Mary's, telling him of the death of Toinette, 
and of the adoption of Philip by the Northern 
artist and his wife ; whereupon Pere Josef 
wrote immediately to Pere Martin, asking that 
a certain package of papers left in his care be 
forwarded as soon as possible to the mission 
of San Miguel. But long before the papers 
reached him, Pere Josef was off on another 
journey, longer and more arduous than the 
preceding; and it was well on in the second 
winter of his mission when he returned to San 
Miguel and found the package awaiting him. 

One night, alone in his little cell, weary, dis- 
heartened, and homesick, Pere Josef broke the 
seal of a large brown envelop addressed to him 
in a feeble, almost illegible scrawl. Within it 
were several papers and quite a number of let- 
ters. The first one he opened and glanced at 



bore the signature of Toinette, and read as 
follows : 

Dear Pere Josef: The doctor says I have heart- 
disease and may die suddenly; that is why I write this 
letter to you, and why I give you these papers to keep, 
and to open only after I am at rest. I want to have 
everything plain and clear for my boy when I am gone, 
and when you read this letter you will understand all 
about it. 

You may think that I ought to have told you all this 
long ago, but I never could. I never could decide to be 
parted from my boy, and I knew you would tell me that 
it was my duty to give him up. 

I must begin at the beginning, and try to tell you all 
as plainly as I can. I was brought up by the Detrava 
family with great care and kindness. I was taught to 
speak French and English ; to read, write, and em- 
broider ; and also to plant and cultivate flowers. When 
my young mistress, Miss Estelle, was born, I was thirty. 
They put the babe in my arms; she was mine from that 
hour, and I belonged to her. She grew up pretty and 
good. I watched over her, and loved her better than 
anything on earth. When the war came and she lost 
both father and mother, she was more mine than ever. 
It was hard to live then ; every one was for himself, and 
no one remembered the desolate orphan. I put my arms 
around her and held her up when she was ready to fall. 
She was life and everything to me. 

There was an encampment of Union soldiers near our 
plantation. They were our enemies, but they did not 
molest us. The young captain in charge was very good 
to us. He pitied my young mistress, and did all he 
could to protect us and make us. comfortable ; and he 
was so gentle and kind that we could not help liking 
him and trusting him. Well, one night she and the 
young captain were privately married by a French 
priest. He had come to our parish to take the place 
of our cure, who had gone as chaplain in a Confederate 
regiment. Pere Josef, you were the priest who married 

Here Pere Josef looked up from the letter, 
and sat for some time in deep thought. " Yes," 
he said at last, " I remember it. It was while 
I was in the parish of St. John the Baptist. It 
was one night in the little vestry. The poor young 
things came to me, and I could n't refuse. 
Those were stirring times, and strange things 
happened. Yes, I remember, — a pale, lovely 
girl and a young Union officer. I thought it 
very strange, but I married them. Yes, this is 
the certificate I gave them"; and he unfolded a 
paper and saw his own signature. Then he 
went on reading Toinette's letter : 

Now I have recalled that to you, you will remember 
what followed. A year after, you baptized their child, a 


beautiful boy ; and when the child was scarce two months 
old, the young father was killed in a skirmish, and my 
mistress, the child and its nurse fled from the country to 
the city house, which, as you may remember, was burnt 
that very night. All three were supposed to have per- 
ished in the flames. It is true the young mother lost 
her life, but the child and nurse did not. I am the 
nurse, and Philip is the child. When the fire broke out 
the babe was asleep in my arms. I carried him to a 
place of safety, and then went back to try to save my 
dear mistress; but I was too late. I could not find her. 
When I heard that the nurse and child were supposed 
to be buried in the ruins, I took the baby without any 


one noticing me, and fled to a friend in another part of 
the city. She gave me shelter, and kept my secret until 
she died. After her death I went back to the Detrava 
place. I wanted the boy to grow up on his own property. 
He did not know that it was his, but I knew that it would 
some day belong to him. 

Do you remember, when I first brought Philip to you, 
how closely and severely you questioned me about his 



parentage ? You did not remember me, and you did not 
dream that the boy was the child of Estelle Detrava and 
the young Union officer. 

You will svonder why I concealed the truth and kept 
my secret so long. I will tell you. I loved the child; 
he was the only one left of his family, and it seemed as 
though he belonged to me, and that it would kill me to 
lose him; but the strongest reason of all was — I had 
solemnly promised my young mistress that if she should 
be taken away, I would never part with the child. For 
a reason very natural then, she was set against his being 
brought up in the North. Site knew that her husband 
had never made his marriage known to his family, be- 
cause of the bitter feeling between the two parts of the 
country. She was proud and sensitive about it, and she 
made me promise over and over that if sire and her young 
husband died, I would keep the boy, at least until he was 
old enough to choose for himself. I was afraid if I gave 
him up that he would be sent north to his father's family, 
and that I should be parted from him. They knew 
nothing about him, and perhaps they would not care for 
him, and he was my very life. No, I could n't give him 
up then, but I thought I could when he got older. That 
time — the time to give him up — has never come, and I 
think and hope it never will until I am where I cannot 
miss him, or fret to lose him. 

But I must finish this, because writing tires me and is 
slow work. I 've been days and nights over this con- 
fession, trying to make it all clear and plain. After the 
excitement about the fire was over, I went secretly back 

and a number of letters from the young officer to my 
mistress ; and you will see that there is a letter ad- 
dressed to the young man's mother, which has never 
been opened. He gave it to my mistress, so that if any- 
thing happened to him she could send it lo his mother. 
I suppose that in it he confesses his marriage and asks 
them to take care of his wife and child. But she, blessed 
saint, will never need their care. She went to heaven, just 
as her young husband had perished, only a few days be- 
fore her; and now there is none left but the boy, who, 
when I am gone, must be given up to his father's family. 
It may be wrong to keep him from them now, but he is 
only a little fellow and he loves me dearly. I have done 
my best for him : I have taught him to be good. No one 
can say a word against Toinette's Philip; and oh, Pere 
Josef, I just feel that when you read this he will be alone ! 
I shall be gone — the "mammy" he has always loved 
and obeyed. Will you do your best for the child, love 
him, comfort him — he will be so unhappy away from me? 
Of course these letters and papers must be sent to his 
grandmother. I wonder if she will love him as I have! 
Oh, Pere good to him! I leave him in your 
care; and if I have done wrong by keeping him, forgive 
me, and commend me to the mercy of God. 


When Pere Josef finished Toinette's letter, 
he furtively wiped a tear from his thin cheek; 
then, after looking over the papers carefully, he 

to the deserted plantation-house and got all of my young inclosed al]j with a few explanatory lines from 

mistress's papers, which fortunately she left behind her , • lr ■ , . . . , . , . 

• v. t • j a- u. a. 1/1, 1 1 > -n, himself, in a strong package which he addressed 

in her hurried flight, or they would have been lost with ' . 

her. I knew they would be needed some day. They t0 Madam Amsworth, Madison Avenue, 

are all in this package — the certificates which you gave, New York. 

( To be continued. ) 


It was a bitter cold night in November, 
1865. The. Howard family, after the early sup- 
per, were gathered around the fire, laughing 
and chatting for an hour before the children, 
two little girls, Louise and Jean, went to bed. 

Mr. Howard, in the big Boston rocker, was 
swaying gently back and forth; there was a 
strained, anxious look on his pleasant face, and 
he answered the children's many questions in 
an absent-minded way which was startling. 

" Now, Papa," said Louise, " that 's three 
times you have said ' Yes, dear,' when you 
should have said ' No.' What is the matter — 
are you thinking ? " 

" Papa is thinking very hard, deary," said 
the mother; " he has a hard problem to solve." 

Their father looked at the two eager faces 
for a moment, and then said, " Come here, 
chicks. I will tell you all about it." 

The children sprang to him, and clasping 
them closely in his arms, he began. " Let 
me see how wise and sensible you can be. 
You are both well-grown girls now; do you 
think you could make a sacrifice for our sakes 
— Mama's and mine ? " 

" Oh, yes, yes ! of course we could," cho- 
rused both children. " What is it ? " 

" Could you two little girls give up your 
Christmas tree this year ? " 

The curly heads drooped softly to 
the father's shoulder. He went on : 

" It is just this way. You see I am in the 
employment of the Government — a servant of 
Uncle Sam. The war has been cruel and long; 
all the money has been used for the poor 
soldiers; so Uncle Sam has n't paid me for 
some months, nor, I heard at the office to-day, 
will he be able to do so for some time to come. 
Almost all my money is used up. I dare not 
spend a penny for anything but food and clothes 
for us all; a Christmas tree and presents are 
out of the question. I want you both to help 
us bear this ; for, believe me, my little lassies, 
't is harder for us than it will be for you." 

" Oh, Papa," wailed Jean, " we 're too little 
to bear such dreadful things. Why, I 'most 
think I could n't live without a Christmas tree I 
Why, we always have a tree ! " 

The father sighed as he kissed the tear-wet 
face of his darling. " What has my big girl to 
say ? " he asked, looking at Louise. The brown 
curls were tossed back from the flushed face. 

" Papa, don't mind Jeanie, she 's too little to 
bear things; but I 'm a big girl. Only " — here 
a sob was choked down — "you see we 're so 
used to it, you know." 

" We will not talk about it any more to- 
night, for it is time to go to bed," said Mama. 

As the children were going slowly up the 
stairs, Louise heard her father say, " If the 
Honorable Hugh McCulloch could know how 
I suffer for my children's sake to-night, he 
would make an effort in my behalf." 



Everything went wrong at school the next 
day. The pretty young teacher looked at 
Louise in amazement, for the child's thoughts 
seemed to be everywhere but on her lessons. 

After school 
hours, the busy 
teacher looked 
up from her 
weekly reports 
to find Louise 
gazing at her 

" Well, dear, 
what is it ? " 

"Why, Miss 
Annie, I did not 
say anything." 

" No, dear, 
not with words, 
but you know 
that the eyes 
talk. What is 
the trouble ? " 

" I want to 
ask some ques- 
tions. I know 
United States 
is Uncle Sam, 
but what 's his 
last name ? and 
who is the Hon- 
orable Hugh 
McCulloch ? 
and do you 
know where 
they live ? " 

" You funny 
child! "laughed 
Miss Graham. 
" I have never 
heard of Uncle 
Sam's family- 
name, but Mr. McCulloch is an intimate friend 
of his — in fact, carries his purse and pays all 
his bills for him ; and he lives in Washington." 

" Oh ! Well, I am going to write to him — a 
big letter." 

" Indeed ? What about, dear ? Can I help 
you in any way ? " 
Vol. XXI.-35. 

" You have helped me, Miss Annie. I think I 
can get it written all right. I — excuse me, but 
I can't tell you about it, because it 's something 
about my father's business." 



Miss Graham smiled again at the little one's 
dignity, but she drew the excited child to her 
loving arms, and said, "That 's quite right, my 
dear. Go to your desk and write your letter ; I 
will give you a stamp for it." 

Late that afternoon the important letter was 
taken to the post-office. Don't you think the 



great man must have been amused when his 
secretary handed him the letter, addressed in 
the funny, childish writing ? 
This was how it looked : 

honereble hugh mckulloch. 


I think the correspondence which was car- 
ried on by the distinguished man and the little 
girl will tell you best how it all ended. 

Nov. 30, 1865. 

Dear Mr. McKulloch : Won't you plese excuse 
me for Writing to you. I am in such trouble and want 
you to help me please — my papa says we can't have a 
chrismus tree this year, now is n't that too offley bad ? He 
says uncle sam owes him some money and he can't get it. 
My papa is in the revernue busness, the revernue bus- 
ness has stamps in it his name is mr henry Howard, 52 
Sprague St Newark N. J. won't you plese ask him to pay 
him else we can't have a tree, my teacher says you pay 
all the bills for him. wont you ask Uncle Sam to let you 
pay my papa ? my little sister Jeanie crys all the time, 
she wouldent care mutch if she was ded, she feels so bad 
shes so littel not to have a tree, have you got any little 
girls. May be the war would n't let you get paid too. I 
hope your little children won't have to go with out any 
tree. Won't you plese beg uncle sam to pay up his bill 
to my papa plese exkuse bad speling and Writing my 
mamma always helps, but she dont know about this ne- 
ther does my papa. Truly your littel friend, 

Louise Howard. 

P. S. Arent you glad the war is over. 

Dec. 4, 1S65. 

My dear little Friend : I was very much pleased 
to receive your letter. I am glad you wrote to me in 
your trouble, for I can and will help you. 

The check for the amount the Revenue Service owes 
your father will be forwarded to him, without fail, by the 
22d of the month — so, dear child, tell him to proceed 
with his arrangements for the tree. It will be all right. 

I have a dear little girl like you. Her name is Louise 
too. She was pleased with your letter, and wishes she 
could have a picture of you and little Jeanie. Can you not 
send her one ? 

Yes, my little girl will have a tree too, so I am sure of 
the happiness of three children, at least. Wishing you 
and Jeanie a Merry Christmas, I am yours sincerely, 
Hugh McCuli.och, Secretary of the Treasury. 

P. S. Yes, I am very glad the war is over. 

Dec. 28, 1865. 

Dear Mr. McCulloch: My papa was so sur- 
prised when i got the big letter all seeling wax. he 
laughed and kissed me hard and said what a child but 
he was glad and so was mamma. I was so glad and so 
was Jeanie we botli cryed, we thought mamma did too — 
she says she dident. oh what a beautiful littel tree we 
had, not so Big or so fine as other years, but we liked it 
better, ever so much better than others because we dident 
expect it. 

You are such a kind Gentleman, do you see those 
round spots on this letter, they are kisses from Jean and 
me to you, this is our picture taken with the tree, do you 
like it, do you see that littel man hanging right in front, — 
thats george Washington, its a pen-wiper a littel boy in 
my fathers Sunday school class made it for his chrismus 
gift those are my skates hanging on the tabel and thats 
jeanies doll, is n't she nice. Jeanie has light hair and blue 
eyes I have brown hair and gray eyes anser soon. 

Your loving friend, Louise Howard. 

P. S. I am glad you are pleased about the war being 
over, — but do you know theres a dredful lot of sick sol- 
jers in our hospittel yet — I go and sing to them every 
Saturday afternoon. 

Jan. 15, 1866. 

My dear little Louise : I was more than pleased, 
I was delighted, with your picture. I had it on my li- 
brary table on New Year's day, and it created great in- 
terest, and also admiration. The tree is beautiful, but to 
me your happy little faces are more so. My little Louise 
clapped her hands with joy when she saw it. I enclose 
to you a picture of her. 

I knAv that was George Washington before you told 
me. It is a striking likeness. I think that is a very nice 
tree for hard times. 

I will close with many kind wishes for the new year — 
indeed, for your whole future. 

Sincerely your friend, 

Hugh McCulloch. 

That was the end — no, not quite. I think if 
the great secretary could have looked into the 
children's room at bedtime, and seen the two 
little white figures kneeling at their mother's 
knee, his heart would have glowed within him; 
for the ending of their prayer, said in unison, 
was always this : 

" God bless Papa and Mama and Mr. Hugh 
McCulloch, and make Louise and Jean good 
girls. Amen." 


By W. A. Rogers. 


In the great Dream City that stood last sum- 
mer by the blue waters of Lake Michigan there 
were as many as 50,000 real inhabitants. 

To the visitor they seemed to be only a part 
of the scene : but to an inhabitant the visitors 
were the fleeting show, and he came to know 
and to like or dislike his neighbors as their 
manners or his fancy gave him cause. 

Near the part of the city where I lived was a 
district inhabited by the little people from Java. 
Their streets were so clean, their houses so 
pretty, and they looked out on the stranger with 
such cheerful, timid smiles, that they soon won 
the hearts of their neighbors, and their coffee- 
house came to be a favorite gathering-place. 
When I first visited their streets, I inquired 
of a bright little woman who sat before a tiny 
loom on the portico of her house whether she 
spoke English. She replied quickly : 

" Na, na; no spik Inglis — all spik Chicago 
nax week " ; and then the little woman went on 
weaving a sarong, meanwhile singing softly to 

A sarong is a piece of batik, or cotton cloth, 
about three feet wide by six feet long. It is 
used by the Javanese men and women as a 
kind of skirt, being folded about the hips and 
tucked in under a belt. 

But weaving a batik is only a small part of 
the work of making a sarong. Under another 
wide portico a patient, skilful woman sat draw- 
ing the most beautiful designs on the white 

First she made a border exactly like a back- 
gammon board at each end of the cloth ; then 
an inner strip of fantastic pictures of birds fly- 
ing and spreading their wings ; and then a 
maze of lines that seemed to get all tangled up, 





yet all came out in a regular figure in the end, 
just as the riders do at the circus when they all 
canter out dressed as seventeenth-century cava- 

The pencil with which this design was drawn 
should not, perhaps, be called a pencil at all — 
it is very different from the ones St. Nicholas's 
artists use ; it is a tiny bowl, 
about as big as an acorn, with 
a little curved spout, and is 
fastened on the end of a short 
bamboo handle. The bowl is 
filled with hot wax, which the 
woman keeps melting in a 
copper vessel over a charcoal 
fire. Every moment or two 
she dips the bowl in the vessel 
of wax, then blows in the spout, 

and draws a few lines 
before the wax cools. 

When the design is 
complete the cloth is 
dipped in dyes, and 
when dry is washed in 
hot water. Then all 
the wax lines come off, 
leaving a white figure 
wherever they were 
traced, for the dye can- 
not get through the 

The most fantastic 
sarongs are made for 
the dancing-girls of the 
Royal Theater of the 
Sultan of Solo. For 
them, too, the young 
Javanese girls embroi- 
der velvet bodices with 
gorgeous figures in 
colored silks. 

A Javanese prince 
brought over a com- 
plete company — actors, 
dancers, and orchestra 
— from the Sultan's 
Theater to help amuse 
the visitors to his street 
in the City of Visions. 
He had a beautiful 
little theater built, all of bamboo and of woven 
matting and close-set thatch ; and in this at- 






tractive building the clever and well-trained 
troupe of performers gave entertainments every 
day — parts of a long, native drama that if 
given at one performance would take as much 

time to play 
clear through 
as is required 
for a game of 

I made the 


\ of Prince 

^J Radhen 

Adnin Soekmadilaga 

soon after we became 

neighbors, and used 

to go and visit him 

sometimes at the 


The company all 
held their royal stage 
manager in great re- 
verence, and when- 
ever the little danc- 
ing-girls passed him, they crouched low on the 
floor, and waddled by him in Oriental style. 

The prince used to laugh good-naturedly 
about this absurd waddle. He told me that 
every one who went before the Sultan of Solo 
had to waddle in the same way for a hundred 
yards, and that some of the very fat men would 


grow so tired before they got to the sultan, that 
they would have to lie down and rest, and then 
try it over again. 

Whenever a Javanese came into the green- 
room with a message or letter, he slipped off his 
sandals and dropped down on his knees on the 
mat before the prince; and once, when I had 
made a sketch of a pretty dancing-girl, the 
whole company knelt down in a circle around 




the prince while he held it up for them to see. 
It was like the scene in "Patience" where the 
forty love-sick maidens kneel around Bunthorne. 

At the back of the stage in the theater stands 
a heavy wooden frame curiously carved, and 
painted blue and gold. It holds up two huge 
gongs toned to a sound as deep and mellow as 
far-distant thunder. 

These gongs form the deep bass of the orches- 
tra. An old wrinkled Javanese squats between 
them, with eyes closed, and apparently fast 
asleep; but just at the right time his arm swings 
and strikes a deep note that vibrates all through 
the house. The other instruments are smaller 
gongs in wooden frames, a rude drum or two, 
a bamboo flute, and a fiddle with one string. 

Nearly everything the Javanese use is made 
either of bamboo poles or palm-leaves — the 
walls and floors of their houses are of split 



bamboo woven into a basketwork, the frames 
are of bamboo poles, and the roofs of palm- 
leaf thatch. 

The children's toys, wagons, drums, and tops, 
and the rude musical instruments used by the 
common people, are all of bamboo. 

When the iron electric-light poles were put 
up on their streets, the Javanese looked on them 

and we all walked down a great street to 
where an old and wily Turk sold a kind of 
Oriental pancake that he insisted was always 
" hot ! hot ! hot ! " although they were very 
often cold. 

The little Javanese men and women were 
very fond of the old Turk's cakes ; and there 
we sat down, a Lapland family on our right, on 


with disgust. But the very next day not one of 
the poles was to be seen. The bright little peo- 
ple had spent the whole night thatching them 
from top to bottom with the black fibrous 
sheath of the palm-leaf, and capped them off 
with little conical thatch hoods. 

On the night when I last saw my little neigh- 
bors, before the great Dream City vanished, 
there was a cold wind blowing in from the lake. 

It was uncomfortable on the wide porticos, 

our left a pair of giant Samoans, while the old 
Turk tossed hot pancakes from the fire to his 
motley guests. 

The Great Dipper was swinging high above 
the North Star when we dispersed, and we saw 
one another no more from that time ; for the 
days of the most beautiful and short-lived city 
in the world were ended, and now our neigh- 
bors have vanished to the lands of the midnight 
sun and the waters under the Southern Cross. 



By Crawford Capen. 

SARDINIA, A. D. 1819. 

The time has gone 
by when it was necessary 
to prove that a stamp- 
collection is a good 
thing, and has a value 
of its own. The fact 
that there are thou- 
sands of men and wo- 
men, and hundreds of 
thousands of boys and girls, who find the 
greatest pleasure in gathering and preserving 
these interesting bits of paper, in itself seems 
to show that a stamp-collection has a value. 

Just what that value is, however, is the ques- 
tion. The answer will give the reason for the 
great interest in collecting on the part of old 
and young, and the steady increase in the num- 
ber of collectors. 

It is not with the money value of stamps that 
we are particularly concerned. That they have 
this is conclusively shown by 
the prices obtained for rare 
stamps at the sales held every 
season. For instance, a single 
" Confederate local " stamp of 
Livingston, Alabama, brought 
more than seven hundred dol- 
lars at auction last winter. 

One of the best things 
about stamps, however, is 
that so many of them, having great value for 
other reasons and in other ways, can be obtained 
at small cost. Fine collections of coins or ex- 
pensive bric-a-brac can be made by the wealthy 
only. Many very fine stamp-collections are the 
property of boys or girls, or of older people, in 
moderate circumstances. This small cost, com- 
bined with the great value of stamps as a means 
of giving wholesome and profitable pleasure, 
accounts for the great and growing popularity 
of stamp-collecting in this country and Europe. 
The craving for knowledge is one of our 
strongest and certainly most worthy desires. 




Stamp-collecting ministers directly to this ; its 
educational value is great already, and is con- 
stantly increasing. 

The knowledge of modern historical events in 
a concise and definite form is one of the posses- 
sions of the thoughtful stamp-collector. We have, 
in Spanish history, the futile insurrection of 
DonCarlos,i873-7 5 , ^ N 
clearly marked by the i£ yiaiszSsiOs 
issue of stamps which 
he caused during 
those years, and the 
face of the pretender 
in our albums keeps 
the fact definitely in 
our minds. The change from King Alfonso 
XII. to the Regency and the baby king Alfonso 
XIII., born in 1886, no boy collector will for- 
get. Nor will the girls fail to remember that in 
1 89 1, soon after the death of the old king, Wil- 
liam III., a charm- 
ing girlish face made 
its appearance on 
the stamps of the 

These are but two 

instances showing 

events are recorded by 





how recent 

There is scarcely a stamp-issuing country 
which does not exhibit on its stamps the 
changes of government since it began their 
issue. Fathers and 

mothers who have 
lived through these 
changes of govern- 
ment, but who may 
have forgotten the 
dates, will appreci- 
ate the means which 


their children have in stamps for preserving the 
knowledge in a definite and suggestive form. 
It would not require much argument to prove 




the value of a collection of stamps as a means 
of education, had they been in use as long as 
coins, for example. 

Think of having the portraits of all the em- 
perors of Rome, from Augustus to the fall of 
the empire, upon a series of stamps like our 
own United States issues, engraved by ancient 
workmen as skilful as our modern engravers ! 
The simple and worn designs upon ancient coins 
would have small value as historical relics in 
comparison with such stamps. 

Had the invention of printing and the use of 
steam been events of two thousand years ago, 
we might have had such priceless relics. Now 
it is reserved for future generations of stamp- 
collectors to glory in the rare and beautiful 
issues of the great American Republic, beside 
which Rome in her palmiest days was no larger 
than the pygmy to the giant. 

Stamps as teachers of history will be more 
appreciated in the future than they can be in 
the present. 

The stamp-issuing nations, moreover, are now 
providing commemorative issues upon the an- 
niversaries of great events. This must add 
greatly to the value of stamps as teachers of 
important historical truths. The young col- 
lector who has found it easy to remember that 
Columbus discovered America in 1492, but not 
so easy to recall the exact date, will have the 
very day fixed in his memory if he can secure 
the Argentine commemorative stamp which was 
issued and used on one day only in the year 
1892 — October 12th. 

Also 1498, as the date when Columbus first 
stood upon the mainland of 
South America, will be easily re- 
membered by means of the com- 
memorative stamp which the 
government of Venezuela has 
just issued. 

The beautiful set of Columbian 
stamps of the United States, sim- 
ilar in design, and engraved by the same com- 
pany as this stamp of Venezuela, cannot fail to 
awaken interest and keep in mind many of the 
most important events connected with early 
American history. 

These commemorative issues always arouse 




direct information which they furnish is in 
many instances noteworthy. Take the Hong 
Kong Jubilee stamp as an example. The 
nationality of the inhabi- 
tants is seen in the name 
Hong Kong, and in the 
Chinese characters on the 
stamp. That it is an isl- 
and situated off the Chinese 





J^lJ^'iiU^^EilWJJ.ligP 11 ™'' 


coast near the great 
city of Canton, every 
collector knows ; and 
the head of the Queen, 
with the word "Jubi- 
lee," and the dates " 1841-1891," shows that 
it belongs to Great Britain, and has been in 
her possession for more than fifty years. 

The United States first issued commemo- 
rative stamps to celebrate the centennial of 
American independence in 1876, and its ex- 
ample in that, and the great Columbian issue, 
is being widely imitated. A number of other 
nations have made similar historical issues, and 
scarcely a month passes with- 
out an announcement that some 
country intends to commemorate 
in this manner an event of its 

Thus the value of a stamp- 
collection as a teacher and re- 
minder of great events in history 
is continually increasing. Those young people 
who begin now the collection and preservation 
of specimens, will some day find them an aid in 
the understanding of history and geography. 

No knowledge gained in school slips away in 
later life more easily than the facts of geogra- 
phy. Indeed, no learning will long remain in 
all its fullness unless its details be occasionally 
recalled anew. Stamp-collecting brings the sit- 
uation of every important nation of the earth 
again and again through life to the mind of the 

All his reading of the newspapers, which are 
continually reporting events in foreign coun- 
tries, is made clear and definite by the know- 


the greatest interest among collectors, and the ledge gained through stamp-collecting. 





South and Central Africa, for instance, are 
assuming considerable importance commercial- 
ly, and for this and for other reasons our atten- 
tion is being continually invited by newspapers 
and by magazine articles to this portion of the 
earth. No one knows so definitely as the 
thoughtful stamp-collector (unless one has 
made a special study of African territorial 

changes) what 
to protectorate 
have been; what 
sections are gov- 
erned by what 
nations, and 
what are the 
probabilities and reasons for commercial devel- 

There are nations which issue stamps bear- 
ing upon them maps of the section of the earth 
in which they are situated. Yet it is not so 
much through these maps as it is through the 
fact that the stamps issued by the nations bring 
existence and situ- 
ation again and 
again to the mind 
of the collector, 
that stamps are 
valuable aids to 
the knowledge of 

The knowledge of physical geography also 
receives aid from the stamp-collection. For 
example, the volcanic character of Salvador is 
made evident by its stamps. The stamp-col- 
lector never forgets this, but among other edu- 
cated people it would be hard to find one in 
a hundred who could tell positively whether 
there are volcanoes in Salvador or not. 

The productions and industries of many na- 
tions are illustrated on their stamps. 

The collector whose efforts have secured for 
his collection the stamps here shown, will not 
forget that Newfoundland sends out fishing- 
smacks for cod. 

The natural history of many countries is 
taught by their stamps. 

Where only is the kangaroo found ? Whence 
come the emu and the beautiful "bird of 
Vol. XXI.— 36. 




paradise " ? What is the country of the hippo- 
potamus? Where is the land of the llama? 
The young stamp-collector 

We acquire, in connection 
with progress in stamp-col- 
lecting, certain habits of 
close examination and dis- 
crimination which are most 
valuable in all departments 
of life. The advanced col- 
lector notes carefully all va- 
rieties of color and shade. 
He sees at a glance differ- 
ences in the size of perfor- 
ations. He knows what 
laid and wove, quadrille 
and ribbed papers are. He 
studies water-marks. He 
is well acquainted with the quality of the work 
done by the most prominent firms of engravers 
throughout the world. He sees in the differ- 
ences between the Paris and Athens prints of 
the Greek stamps, and in the roughness of the 
native Bolivian lithograph, made when its stock 
of finely engraved stamps 
ran short, the comparative 
progress of nations in the 
arts of the engraver and 
printer. The wit-sharpening 
process which the stamp- 
collector undergoes in these 
and in many other ways cannot be over-esti- 

The lessons that are given to the stamp- 








collector by his stamps are being constantly in- 
creased in number and broadened in scope by 
the new issues made by the nations. Stamp- 
collecting has greatly advanced, and is much 
more valuable than it was twenty years ago. 
The advance of the future will undoubtedly 
increase in a remarkable degree the valuable 
character of the pursuit from the educational 

Stamp-collecting, as an 
elevating, refining, and 
character-developing plea- 
sure, is in the very front 
rank among human amuse- 
ments. Let a boy become 
thoroughly interested in 
stamp-collecting, and let him receive the help 
and encouragement in it from his parents which 
he does in other pursuits, and we prophesy for 
him a successful future. He will be more likely 
to use his spending-money wisely ; and the in- 
terest in stamps will never leave him. 




The editor and publishers of St. Nicholas 
have noted the eager way in which young 


people are taking up stamp- 
collecting. They see that this 
interest is constantly increasing 
and spreading. They appreci- 
ate the value of the pursuit when 
properly conducted. They have 
therefore decided to open a 
stamp department, devoting 
a page or more each month to the subject. 

The object of this stamp department will be 
to help young collectors to choose the best 
methods of collecting, and to make their col- 
lections in such a way that they will be to 
them not only a pleasure, but a decided aid in 
their general education. 

The department is opened for your benefit, 
young collectors, and we ask your help and 
cooperation, that it may be the greatest possible 

We know you have many questions you 
would like to ask about stamp-collecting. 

Send them in a letter to St. Nicholas, mark- 
ing it " Stamp Department," and you will find 
your answers sooner or later on the page de- 
voted to stamps. 


By F. R. Arnold. 

HIS world of ours is full of song 
To overflowing, dear; 
And many are the carols sweet 
For Christmas time o' year. 

Then all the bells in joyful tone 

Ring out " May peace abide 

O'er all the earth," not here alone, 

This blessed Christmas-tide. 

Good will to men," from zone to zone, 

In countries far and wide. 




HERE comes a fine young fellow with whom 
I trust we shall all become well acquainted — 
Master Eighteenhundredandninctyfour. 

It 's a long name, I admit, but then he comes 
of a long line of ancestors, and it has taken him 
just eighteen hundred and ninety-three years to 
get here — -or is it ninety-four? That is too trifling 
a point for this pulpit, so I must submit it as a 
puzzle to be solved in your leisure moments. 

A New Year. What wonder that his appearance 
is hailed with joy and gratitude, and a little anxiety ! 
What may he not bring to us? — and, on the other 
hand, what may he not take away? These are 
questions which are yet to be answered, and your 
Jack trusts satisfactorily answered. Never forget 
that while there probably are undoubted blessings, 
and absolute sorrows in every year, — many gains 
and many losses, — there also are pleasures that it 
is no loss to lose, and disappointments that may 
prove in the long run to be a great gain. 

It is given to us to shape our own days to a great 
extent. Even my birds know this ; and they are 
so near you and so fond of you (at a distance) that 
I 'm sure they '11 be pleased at my mentioning the 
matter this morning. As for Deacon Green and 
the dear Little Schoolma'am — bless them ! — why, 
they have begged me to give on this occasion 
quite a good deal of excellent advice that I really 
have n't about me at this moment. So, my chil- 
dren, just greet the New Year with an open mind, 
a warm, loyal heart, and a firm, no-nonsense sort 
of a conscience, and Eighteenninetyfour, as the 
Deacon already calls him, will take you cordially 
by the hand. 

Now let us consider the subject of 


MANY of you, my hearers, as I have learned by 
your letters, have heard, or fancied you heard, the 
corn growing in a corn-field. Now, here comes a 

true story of silent but wonderfully quick growth, 
attested by an almost eye-witness, as you presently 
shall see : 

Taunton, Mas?. 
Dear JaCK-IN-THE-Pulpit : I wonder if your young 
crowd have any idea how rapidly some plants grow ? I 
can tell them of one instance which occurred at my own 
home. On one side of our path is a vegetable and flower 
garden with splendid bits of color, and on the other is 
grass. The weeds had been removed on the first of 
September, the path and lawn raked perfectly clean, and 
a few mornings afterward, at eight o'clock, I went, book 
in hand, to the hammock that hangs between an apple 
and a cherry tree. While settling myself comfortably in ■ 
it, I noticed how very smooth and green the grass looked. 
The volume once opened, everything else was forgotten 
until I heard the big hall clock strike ten. Then I real- 
ized I had spent two hours in solid enjoyment. Rising 
from the hammock, I saw just by my side a cluster of 
toadstools, one quite large, and two or three smaller 
ones, where two hours before not a hint of a toadstool had 
been visible ! My regret was that I had not seen the 
ground break and the little plants come forth ; but there 
they stood bravely, a wonderful example of rapid growth. 
Yours truly, Lutie E. Deane. 

" How many feet has a cat ? " asks the Little 
Schoolma'am. "Four." "Quite right. And how 
many claws has a cat?" "Why, four times five, 
of course," says the lightning-calculator boy of the 
Red Schoolhouse. "Has she?" exclaimed the 
Deacon in surprise — 


" How many claws has our old cat?" 
Asked Eddie. "Who can tell me that?" 

"Oh, that," said Harry, "every one knows: 
As many as you have fingers and toes." 

" Yeth," lisped Ethel, " shee'th justht got twenty; 
Five on each foot, and I think it-th plenty." 

"Yes," said Bertie, "just five times four; 
That makes twenty — no less nor more." 

" Wrong," said Eddie; "that 's easy seen; 
Catch her and count 'em — she has eighteen ! 

" Cats on each of their two hind paws 
Have only four, and not five, claws." 

P. T. 


Do you know the twelve signs of the Zodiac 
pictured on the new cover of this magazine — 
Aries, Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, Leo, Virgo, Libra, 
Scorpio, Sagittarius, Capricornus, Aquarius, and 
Pisces? Of course the younger readers of St. 
Nicholas will need to be told about them by 
their parents or teachers; the very youngest of 
them will see in them only pictures, and very 
pretty ones, too ; but the big boys and girls must 
search their memories or their books, and they 
will discover that these tiny round pictures have a 
great significance. Even the largest dictionaries 
contain in their silent pages something about the 
signs or constellations of the Zodiac that I venture 
to say will be new to more than half of the grown- 
up persons in the English-speaking world. 


By George Bradford Bartlett. 

This is one of the funniest entertainments ever seen, 
and one of the easiest to prepare. 

It needs only a screen or a curtain stretched across 
any room. 

The height of the curtain may be determined by the 
size of the children who sing in the concert, for they 
stand in a row behind the screen or curtain. 

It is well to have these singers nearly of the same 
size, as the screen or curtain should conceal all of their 
bodies except the head and neck. 

The only preparation required is that the arms and 
hands of each should be covered with stockings, and that 
shoes be worn upon each hand with the soles of the shoes 
pointed forward, so that the toes will be turned toward 

the spectators, who are seated in front of the curtain at 
a little distance. At the conclusion of each verse the 
singers stoop clown all together and very quickly, and 
each, lowering the head, elevates the arms above the 

The effect thus produced is that all the singers seem 
to be standing on their heads. 

They keep time with their feet (or rather hands) to 
the music of the song, and the sudden changes, when 
done simultaneously, will never fail to amuse. 

The idea of this unique performance probably origi- 
nated in the fertile brain of a Frenchman; but it has 
been adapted for the use of children, and will prove an 
enjoyable addition to the holiday merrymakings. 


St. Nicholas readers will welcome this cordial letter 
from their friend Helen Keller. 

Hulton, Pa., October 28, 1S93. 
Dear St. Nicholas: Last summer, just before I 
started on my trip around the world, — for that is what a 
visit to the World's Fair really is, — I received a beauti- 
fully bound edition of St. Nicholas for 1891, and, as I 
do not know who sent me the beautiful present, I thought 
I would write and tell my good friend St. Nicholas how 

much pleased I was with the gift, and how grateful I am 
to the unknown friend who sent it. I always welcome a 
new book as I would a dear friend. I have many of 
them now, some that I read myself, and others that my 
teacher reads to me. They are, as I am sure St. Nicho- 
las knows, sweet companions, and I spend some of the 
happiest hours of my life in their beloved society. 

I think St. Nicholas will be glad to hear that I am 
spending this winter in Hulton with some very dear 
friends. I am studying Latin, mathematics, and litera- 



ture under a private tutor, assisted by my teacher. I 
enjoy my lessons very much, especially literature. I am 
studying Tennyson's poems now, and have just learned 
"The Brook." What a pretty, musical little song it is ! 
It makes me feel gay and happy, just as bright music 
makes me want to dance. I like Latin, too, though I 
must say the Romans had rather an odd way of express- 
ing their ideas sometimes, and I do not think the lan- 
guage is as pretty as the French. But arithmetic — well, 
the less said about it the better ! I suppose, if I am 
patient, and try very hard, I shall understand it by and 
by, and then I shall like it better; but now my mind 
gets to fluttering like a little bird in spite of all my efforts 
to keep it in the right place. 

I am staying in a lovely place, with tall forest trees all 
around the house, and to-day the wind is rushing through 
them with a mournful sound, like the moaning of the sea 
when there is going to be a storm. It seems to say: 
" Summer is gone ; winter will soon be here." A mys- 
terious hand is silently stripping the trees of their beau- 
tiful autumn tapestries, and the leaves fall like little 
frightened birds, and lie trembling on the ground. But 
this great change in nature does not make me sad, for I 
know autumn does not die. She only sleeps for a little 
while, tenderly wrapped in winter's soft mantle of snow. 
It is as our dear poet said: "There is no death. What 
seems so is transition." 

But, bless me, what a long letter I have written ! I fear 
St. Nicholas will think I am a perfect little chatter- 
box, — I say "little" because my thirteen years will not 
make me seem very big to St. Nicholas, though I am 
rather tall. 

My teacher joins me in wishing St. Nicholas all 
good things. May the dear God bless and prosper you 
in the bright new year which is so nearly here. 

Affectionately your friend, Helen Keller. 

San Diego, Cal. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I notice on page 91 of the 
St. Nicholas for November the proportions of our 
flag quoted by you from the Brooklyn Eagle. I am a little 
army girl, eleven years old, and my father is an officer. 
He tells me that the following is the proper description 
of our glorious Stars and Stripes : 

The garrison flag is 30 feet fly by 20 feet hoist, with 
13 horizontal stripes of equal breadth, alternately red and 
white, the red stripes being on the margin. In the upper 
corner is the " union," of blue, one third the length 
of the flag, with one white star for each State, and ex- 
tending from the top to include the seventh stripe. The 
post flag is 20 feet by 10 feet, and the storm flag is 8 feet 
by 4 feet 2 inches ; both flags of the same color and design. 
The Eagle is therefore not quite correct in its description. 

The stars should be arranged for forty-four States, in 
six rows, the upper and lower rows to have eight stars, 
and the others seven each, arranged as follows, leaving 
room for the symmetrical addition of stars for four more 
States : 

* # # 

* *f * 

% # 

* # # 

Your friend, Emily D- 

A good friend of St. Nicholas, Mr. H. Webster, 
a chief engineer in the United States navy, writes that 
he takes a great interest in the patriotic methods now 
being carried on throughout the Union for increasing 
the love for the flag. Having been in the navy since 
1862, and passed through Farragut's river and bay cam- 
paigns, he is familiar with naval practice, and he kindly 
sends to the magazine the following letter giving clear 
directions for making a flag of correct proportions by a 
simple method based upon the stripes alone : 

Dear St. Nicholas : In the November number of 
St. Nicholas I note an inquiry from"C." regarding 
the correct proportions of the United States flag. 

The answer to the query, taken from the Brooklyn 
Eagle, is indefinite in that it fails to give such proportions 
as to enable a tyro in flag-making to make one; and I 
have ventured to send, for the benefit of the readers of 
St. Nicholas, a brief description of the system pursued 
by the old quartermasters in the navy, who have all the 
work of this kind to do on board our man o'-war. The 
flag is twenty-one stripes long, it is thirteen stripes wide, 
the union is seven stripes square. 

Applying these proportions to stripes four inches wide, 
we have a flag eighty-four inches long, and fifty-two inches 
wide ; and the union will be twenty-eight inches square. 

The top and bottom stripes of the flag are red, and the 
bottom stripe included in the union is also red. 

This method of working by stripes is easily remem- 
bered, and makes the flag of just the right shape ; and I 
should think it a good idea if these notes were spread far 
and near by publication in your magazine. 

H. Webster. 

Kansas City, Mo. 
Dear St. Nicholas : While Mama was away one 
morning my brother and I wrote the verses below : 

When the stars at set of sun 

Twinkle in the sky, 
Then the little babes at rest 

Dream that mother 's by. 

Then when morning light appears, 
And the bright sun gleams, 

Babes, and birds, and flowers, too, 
Wake from sweetest dreams. 

Warren and Olive O . 

Oneida Ind. Reserve, Wis. 

Dear St. Nicholas: My brother and I have taken 
you ever since you were started; but I have not had 
you this last winter, as I have been attending a mili- 
tary school in Illinois ; and it seems so good to get home 
and see you again. 

My father is missionary to the Oneida Indians, and 
we have lived among them for about two years. We 
have grown very fond of them during this time, for 
they are such simple, childlike, lovable people. In the 
words of one of the more intelligent of their number, 
they " are only grown-up children, but like to be treated 
like men and women." Their former missionary, Rev. 
E. A. Googenough, lived among them for thirty-six 
years, and the Indians grew to love him so that now 
they can hardly hear his name without tears. 

A great many years ago the Government established 



six day-schools on this reservation, but now some of 
them have been suspended, and a large Government 
boarding-school established, which has, I believe, about 
eighty pupils. There are also schools at Hampton, Vir- 
ginia; Lawrence, Kansas; and Carlisle, Pennsylvania, to 
which it has been the custom to send pupils ; but now 
that this Government school has been established, more 
will stay here until they are further advanced. 

About sixty years ago the Oneidas lived in western 
New York; but about 1830 they moved out to Wis- 
consin, under the leadership of their chief, Elijah Sken- 
ando, a descendant of the chief Skenando who figured 
in the Revolution. They settled ten miles west of the city 
of Green Bay, where they still live. There is a little 
stream called Duck Creek, which flows through the re- 
serve. We have a rowboat on it, and have great fun. 
Until about thirteen years ago the Indians still kept up 
all their tribal institutions. The tribe was divided into 
four clans, called the Bear, Wolf, Big Turtle, and Little 
Turtle clans. Each clan had its special chief, and then, 
over all, was a chief of the Oneida nation. The chiefs 
were always elected. 

The name Oneida means " the People of the Stone " ; 
and the tradition runs that one day, as some families of 
the Oneidas were out hunting, many years ago, Tam- 
many, a great spirit, appeared unto them and delivered 
unto them a red stone, saying that as long as the Oneidas 
kept that stone they would be happy, prosperous, and 

So whenever they went to war and conquered and 
destroyed a village, they took a stone, painted it red, 
and left it amid the ruins, in token that the Oneidas had 
wrought the ruin; and their name was feared among all 
their neighbors. I remain sincerely yours, 

Guy P. B . 

By Daisy Dyer (age 12). 

The gaunt, bare trees against the wint'ry sky 
Stand shrinking as the chill wind whistles past, 

Lift their lean arms, and for a cov'ring cry, 
For they are cold, and shiver in the blast. 

The glow and life of autumn all are gone, 
The dull gray mist looks pitiless and drear ; 

The very heavens seem to droop and mourn, 
Like one in grief who cannot shed a tear. 

Along the streets the hurrying people throng, 
Each pushing to reach home before the storm ; 

And faint the town-bells shiver out their song, 
For e'en the bells must move to keep them warm. 

But now the fury of the storm bursts forth ; 

Its efforts to control itself are vain. 
It shrieks and moans and ravages about, 

And moans and shrieks and ravages again. 

Down from the clouds the frightened snowflakes haste, 

Afraid to stay within the angry skies, 
And swirl and fall, and make each dreary waste 

Look like a fairy garden to our eyes. 

The seared leaves that still lie scattered round 
Spring up and madly join the fairy dance, 

But soon in dust are beaten to the ground, 

While still the dizzy snowflakes twirl and glance. 

Out from their windows all the children gaze 
With eager eyes upon the pretty sight; 

They chat with glee of all the coming days, 

And laugh and clap their hands in sheer delight. 

Beneath them, swift, a pauper hurries by ; 

He pulls his thin coat tighter o'er his chest, 
And glances upward with an anxious eye — 

He does not think that winter-time is best. 

From out the barn the farmer's whistle comes ; 

The while he makes his cattle snug and warm, 
He claps his mitten'd hands, and sings and hums, 

And tells his cattle how he loves the storm. 

The skipper leans against his rolling mast, 
And looks with joy upon the snowy air, 

And cries : " Ho ! mates ! the winter 's come at last ! ' 
And so it has — 't is winter everywhere. 

Frederick City, Md. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have been an interested reader 
of yours for a long lime. 

Our city was laid out about a hundred and forty-eight 
years ago. In 1755 George Washington went through 
here, over what is called the National Pike Road, with 
General Braddock. Then this country was governed by 
the British. Francis Scott Key, author of the " Star 
Spangled Banner," is buried here in Mount Olive Cem- 
etery. I suppose all of your readers know of Barbara 
Frietchie ; she is buried in the Reformed Church grave- 
yard. We have a very old school here called Frederick 
College, which has had some noted statesmen among its 
students. There is a big tree at the rear of the college, 
on the opposite side of the street, that Stonewall Jackson 
tied his horse to when he came through here in 1862. 
Yours truly, Charlie J . 

Willow Springs, Mo. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little girl twelve years 
old, and I am the eldest of four children. I have taken 
you for two years, and like you better than anything I 
ever read. 

I live in the southern part of Missouri, in a little town 
in the Ozark Mountains. In June, Papa, Mama, and 
we children, with a party of friends, took a trip down the 
Current River to the Club House. It is situated on a 
great rock about three hundred feet high. From the top 
you may get a beautiful view of the winding river and 
the surrounding mountain-peaks. You ride about forty 
miles on the cars to Chickopee, and from there take the 
boats to the Club House. We had a lovely trip, and 
were all sorry when it was ended. 

Your constant reader, Neely C. T . 

We thank the young friends, whose names follow, for 
pleasant letters received from them : Lottie S., Lorenzo 
B., May D. S., Ruth and Beth A., R. W. W., Howard 
L., Helen C, S. E. R., Addie B., Hazel J. H., Pauline 
C. D., Daisy S. and Laura W., Beatrice W. C., Laura 
G., Caroline S., Frances G., Caroline W. H., Flossy 
Laura C, J. S. H., Mary J. R.,'"Lady Clermont," 
Laura L. and Louise C, Vivian C, Florence C, Fan- 
chette W. M., Mary L. E., Helen K., Elizabeth S., Tina 
M. N., Frank C, Mattie W. L., Nellie B., Eveline J., 
Leila E. N., Lora M. M., M. E. W., Fannie G. G., Edna 
S. O., Myrtle W., Florence B., Leigh B., Jean McK., 
Edith S. H. and Jennie B. M., James D. McL., Eva B. 



Double Acrostic. Primals, "A Wide Awake"; finals, "St. 
Nicholas." Cross-words: i. Amass. 2. Whist. 3. Ibsen. 4. Delhi. 
5. Ethic. 6. Abash. 7. Waldo. 8. Annul. 9. Koala. 10. Exits. 
Pi. December drops no weak, relenting tear, 

By our fond summer sympathies ensnared ; 
Nor from the perfect circle of the year 

Can even winter's crystal gems be spared. 
Pillars of Hercules. Cross-words: 1. Patch. 2. Hiram. 
4. scoLd. 5. LaurA. 6. couRt. 7. riSks. 


Word-building. I. I, is, sin, sign, rings, groins, rousing, scour- 
ing, carousing. II. R, or, roe, rote, voter, covert, covetcr, corvette. 

Connected Diamonds. Santa Claus. I. 1. S. 2. Baa. 3. Santa. 
4. Ate. 5. A. II. 1. C. 2. Ulm. 3. Claus. 4. Mug. 5. S. 

Anagrams. i. Henry Morton Stanley. 2. Josiah Gilbert 

The Historical Man. i. Washington. 2. Judas. 3. Mozart. 
4. Harold II. 5. Cyclops. 6. Francis Drake, 7. Malchus. 8. Ab- 
salom. 9. Samson. 10. Goliath. 11. Demosthenes. 12. Cuvier. 
13. Charles I. 14. Arnold von Winkelried. 15. Cleopatra. 16 Booth. 
17. Barbara Frietchie. 18. John Hancock. 19. Peter Stuyvesant. 
20. Charles III. 21. Charlemagne and Napoleon. 22. Caesar. 
23. Raleigh. 24. Andre\ 

3. caLla. 

9. Fable. 10. aHead. 11. shEar. 12. chaRt. 13. tuniC. 14. floUt. 
15. geLid. 16. lEmon. 17. Saber. 

Hollow Star. From 1 to 2, scarred ; 1 to 3, scolded ; 2 to 3, 
dangled; 4 to 5, platoon; 4 to 6, partner; 5 to 6, nodular. 

To our Puzzlers: Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th of each month, and 
should be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the October Number were received, before October 15th, from Helen C. McCleary — M. 
McG. — Two of the " Wise Five" and Mamie — Maude E. Palmer — Aunt Kate, Mama, and Jamie — Everett Malcolm Hawley — " Uncle 
Mung" — " Maine and Minnesota " — Chester B. Sumner — G. B. Dyer — Josephine Sherwood — Mabel Gardner — " The Family " — R. 
Bloomingdale — Ida Carleton Thallon — Helen, Maud, and Alexander — Kathryn C. Lyon — E. M. G. — No Name, New York' — " Lea- 
ther-Stocking " — John Fletcher and Jessie Chapman — Jo and I — " We Three." 

Answers to Puzzles in the October Number were received, before October 15th, from Helen Bruce, 2 — Paul Reese, 10 — " Lady 
Gay, "2 — Grace C. Chapman, 2—" Uncas," 9 — Arthur P. D., 1 — M. P. Dean, 2 —Edith Louise Dane, 1 — G. W. Shute, 1 — V. V. M. 
Beede, 8 — Helen C. Bennett, 7 — Helen Rogers, 7 — Marie J. McGinnis, 1 — No Name, 2 — Jacob Schmitt, 1 — " Lady Clermont," 3 — 
C. D. C. B., 1 — Elaine S., 2 — Donald C. Bunn, 1 — Mama and Sadie, 11 — Frank Smith, 1 — Lucy H. B. and Elsie A. S., 1 — Murray 
E. Lewis, 1 — L. H. K., 2 — L. O. E., 11 — Eva E. Hill, 11 — Bessie R. Crocker, n — Blanche and Fred, 11 — Gail Ramond, n — Elsie 
MacLeod, 1 — Paul and Charlie, 2 — Geo. S. Seymour, 6 — Louisa E. Jones, 2 — Nellie Bowlin, 1 — J. D. P., 1 — Maurice E. Tennant, 2 — 
Hubert L. Bingay, 10 — Leonard and Kathie Worcester, 1 — Maud and Dudley Banks, 10 — Laura M. Zinscr, 7 — Ella B. Lyon, 7 — Syd- 
ney S. Anderson, 1 — Harry and Helene, 9 — Mollie Auman, 1 — "Three Blind Mice," 6 — Charles K. Ovington, 1 — Dudley Ward 
Fay, 1 — R. D. Little, 2 — Idaletta Ford, 1. 


When the names of the following rivers have been 
rightly guessed, and placed one below another, the initials 
will spell the name of the first vessel propelled by steam 
which ascended the Hudson River. 

1. A large river of the Iberian peninsula. 2. A large 
river of the Chinese Empire. 3. A river of Asiatic Tur- 
key, celebrated for the great events that have occurred 
on its banks. 4. A large river of Africa. 5. A large 
river of Asia. 6. A large river of Germany. 7. A large 
river of Fiance. 8. A large river of Asia. 9. A large river 
of Siberia. 10. The most celebrated river of the ancient 
world. II. A celebrated river of Italy. M. d. g. 


ACROSS: i, A limb. 2. Those who speak falsely. 

3. A species of shark from six to eight feet long, found 
on the coasts of Europe and North America. 4. To put 
off. 5. A snare. 

Downward : 1. A boy. 2. A kind of cloth. 3. A 
bird. 4. Extensive. 5. Cunning. H. w. E. 


Pudro twiner themoc kile a rawriro blod ! 

Shi yci clesan slinghaf ni het glitb, 
Sih hisled eht ginth, redrast gribth twih glentrigit glod, 

Sih mial eht verils tworforks, lizzdang, thrigb ! 
Eh runst shi trens cafe ot eht thorn, dan waist 

Ot hare shi dwin-sedset strub form havesne stage. 


My primals, reading downward, spell the name of the 
manager of a traveling theatrical company who figures 
in one of Dickens's novels. My finals, reading upward, 
spell the name of his daughter. 

Cross-words : 1. Performed or suffered in the place 
of another. 2. To embrace. 3. Dating from one's birth. 

4. A deluge. 5. A symbol. 6. A large Asiatic antelope. 

7. A person of a keen, irritable temper. 8. Universal or 
general. 9. The title of a novel by George Eliot. 10. 
Ignorant. II. An anthem. 12. A bird allied to the jay. 
13. To make less dense or compact. 14. Dullness and 
languor of spirits. 15. A serious address, usually de- 
livered by a clergyman. L. W. 


All the words pictured contain the same number of 
letters. When rightly guessed and placed one below the 
other, in the order in which they are numbered, the central 
letters will spell the name of a broad dagger which was 
formerly worn at the girdle. JENNIE M. 





AM composed of one hundred 
d one letters, and form a three- 
ne verse from a New Year poem 
Mrs. Augusta D. Webster. 
My 24-79-58-8 is standing. 
75-42-2 is a familiar beverage. 
My 33-17-47 is a coal-scuttle. My 
50-93-64-4 is a single division of a 
chain. My 14-98-11-71 is to make 
progress against. My 56-87-49-21-52 
are taunts. My 91-60-39-97-18 is to puff. 
My 77— 7— 36— S3—S5 is ground corn. My 
53~3°-96-35- lc, l is vapor. My 66-28-15- 
8S-62 is a sudden notion. My 69-10-67-82-40-72 is a 
diiry product. My 5-54-81-44-90-3 is to prevent. My 
4S-10J-29-32-20-26 is the workshop of a blacksmith. 
My 84-73-23-80-61-37 is a country of Europe. My 
59-76-25-46-43-9 is the pharynx. My 12-57-94-13- 
22-34-89-19 is a memorial. My 45-74-95-38-68-31 is 
to laugh in an affected or silly manner. My 27-86-99- 
16-92-51-55 is a young fowl.' My 1-63-41^6-78-65-70 
is a title denoting a Spanish nobleman of the lower class. 

M. E. G. 


# # # * 












































I. Upper Left-hand Diamond : 1. In trail. 2. A 
border of lace. 3. A small drum. 4. A stout silk hav- 
ing satin stripes. 5. Wearied. 6. A color. 7. In trail. 

II. Upper Right-hand Diamond: 1. In trail. 2. A 
state of equality. 3. A sunken compartment in wain- 
scoting. 4. A bright-colored singing bird. 5. To get 
again. 6. To allow. 7. In trail. 

III. Lower Left-hand Diamond: i. In trail. 
2. One hundred thousand. 3. Toil. 4. Having a flat 
surface. 5. The American quail. 6. Fled. 7. In trail. 

IV. Lower Right-hand 
Diamond : 1. In trail. 2. To 
disfigure. 3. A piece of metal 
in the form of a coin, to serve as 
reward. 4. Pertaining to the root. 
5. Ran swiftly. 6. A stripling. 7. 
In trail. "R. H., jr." 


Across: i. Insipid. 2 (5 letters). Tapestry. 3 (9 
letters). A noted marksman with the arrow. 4 (5 let- 
ters). An anthem. 5. Steers wildly. 

Downward : 1 (2 letters). A word of blame. 2 (4 
letters). A priest of Thibet. 3. A pointed weapon. 

4. Hurries. 5 (3 letters). A nickname. 6 (3 letters). A 
drunkard. CHAS. B. D. 


The problem is to change one given word to another 
given word, by altering one letter at a time, each altera- 
tion making a new word, the number of letters being 
always the same, and the letters remaining always in the 
same order. Example : Change lamp to fire in four 
moves. Answer : lamp, lame, fame, fare, fire. 

I. Change old to new in ten moves. II. Change 
blue to pink in eleven moves. HI. Change rain to 
snow in eight moves. G. w. shute. 


My first is in acre, but not in field; 

My second in arrow, but not in shield ; 

My third is in olive, but not in peach ; 

My fourth is in utter, but not in speech ; 

My fifth is in stammer, but not in drawl ; 

My sixth is in blanket, but not in shawl; 

My seventh in busy, but not in lazy ; 

My eighth is in wisdom, but not in crazy; 
My whole is the name of a famous man, — 
Find it, children; I know you can. 


I. I. Solemn affirmations. 2. To concur. 3. Abody 
of attendants. 4. Those who inherit. 5. Meaning. 

II. I. Sharp and harsh. 2. To find fault without 
good reason. 3. To get away from by artifice or in- 
genuity. 4. Any extended elevation between valleys. 

5. To extort money from. o. A. G. 


m^yrmvih'f "*i 




Vol. XXI. 

FEBRUARY, 1894. 

Copyright, 1894, by The Century Co. All rights reserved. 

No. 4. 


By Helen Gray Cone. 

The people say in Dimpledell, — 

They 've known her from a baby, — 
There 's not a child behaves as well 

As little Prudence Maybe. 
When anybody looks at her 

She curtsies most precisely; 
Her aunt, Miss Lucy Lavender, 

Has brought her up so nicely. 

This Dimpledell in Dorset lies, 

A village like a toy one. 
Its tiled roofs rise 'neath dappled skies 

Whose light showers don't annoy one. 
'T is clean and neat, and green and sweet 

The country lanes about it; 
And Prudence dwells in Primrose Street — 

Inquire there if you doubt it. 

She is so careful, she will say, — 

Lest she should fib, though blindly, — 
; Aunt Lucy 's very well to-day, 

Perhaps — I thank you kindly!" 
r Aunt buys — I am not certain, quite — 

Cream-cheese of Farmer Acres." 
I think the turning to the right 
Will bring you to the baker's." 

She takes the tea-cup from the shelf — 

The big best cup — and fills it; 
And brings the parson's tea herself, 

And never, never spills it. 
The parson holds it on his knee, 

And sips it at his leisure : 
" A careful little maid," says he. 

Miss Lucy beams with pleasure. 

Her slippers ne'er were known to squeak ; 

Her frills are crisp and snowy; 
Her nut-brown hair is meek and sleek 

In weather wild and blowy. 
The other children hear the praise — 

If cross or careless they be — 
Of all the prim and pretty ways 

Of little Prudence Maybe. 

The girls whose games she does not share 

Unkind opinions bandy : 
She 's made of china, some declare; 

And some, of sugar-candy. 
Dear little heart ! Should she confess 

She 's sometimes rather lonely, 
This very pink of perfectness, 

Aunt Lucy's one-and-only. 

When Mowgli, as you know, left Mother 
Wolf's cave after the fight with the Pack at 
the Council Rock, he went down to the plowed 
lands where the villagers lived ; but he would 
not stop there because it was too near to the 
jungle, and he knew that he had made at least 
one bad enemy at the Council. So he hurried 
on, keeping to the rough road that ran down 
the valley, and followed it at a steady jog-trot 
for nearly twenty miles, till he came to a new 
country. The valley opened out into a great 
plain dotted over with rocks and cut up by ra- 
vines. At one end stood a little village, and 
at the other the thick jungle came down in a 
sweep to the grazing-grounds, and stopped there 
as though it had been cut off with a hoe. All 
over the plain, cattle and buffaloes were graz- 
ing ; and when the little boys in charge of the 
herds saw Mowgli they shouted and ran away, 
and the yellow pariah dogs that hang about 
every Indian village barked at him. Mowgli 
walked on, for he was feeling hungry; and 
when he came to the village gate he saw the 
big thornbush that was drawn up before the 
gate at twilight, pushed to one side. 

" Umph ! " he said, for he had come across 
more than one such barricade in his night 
rambles after things to eat. " So men are afraid 
of the People of the Jungle here also." He sat 

down by the gate; 
and when a man 
came out he stood 

up, and opened his mouth to show that he 
wanted food. The man stared, and ran back 
up the one street of the village shouting for 
the priest, who was a big, fat man dressed 
in white, with a red and yellow mark on 
his forehead. The priest came to the gate, 
and with him at least a hundred people, who 
stared and talked and shouted and pointed at 

" They have no manners, these men folk," 
said Mowgli to himself. " Only the Gray Ape 
would behave as they do." 

So he threw back his long hair and frowned 
at the crowd. 

"What is there to be afraid of?" said the 
priest. " Look at the marks on his arms and 
legs. They are the bites of wolves. He is only 
a wolf-child run away from the jungle." 

Of course, in playing together, the cubs had 
often nipped Mowgli harder than they intended, 
and there were white scars all over his arms 
and legs. But he would have been the last 
person in the world to call them bites, for he 
knew what real biting meant. 

"Arrc! arre /" said two or three women to- 
gether. " To be bitten by wolves, poor child ! 



2 93 

He is a handsome boy. He has eyes like red 
fire. By my honor, Messua, he is not unlike thy 
boy that was taken by the tiger." 

" Let me look," said a woman with heavy 
copper rings on her wrists and ankles ; and she 
stared at Mowgli under the palm of her hand. 
" Indeed, he is not. He is thinner, but he has 
the very look of my boy." 

The priest was a clever man, and he knew 
that Messua was wife to the richest villager in 
the place. So he looked up at the sky for a 
minute, and said solemnly : " What the jungle 
has taken the jungle has restored. Take the 
boy into thy house, my sister, and forget not to 
honor the priest who sees so far into the lives 
of men." 

" By the bull that bought me," said Mowgli 
to himself, " all this talking is like another 
looking-over by the Pack! Well, if I am a 
man, a man I must become." 

The crowd parted as the woman beckoned 
Mowgli to her hut, where there was a red lac- 
quered bedstead, a great earthen grain-chest 
with quaint raised patterns on it, half a dozen 
cooking-pots, an image of a Hindu god in a 
little alcove, and on the wall a real looking- 
glass such as they sell at the country fairs for 
eight cents. 

She gave him a long draught of milk (this 
was new to Mowgli, but it tasted good), and 
some bread, and then she laid her hand on 
his head and looked into his eyes; for she 
thought perhaps that he might be her real son 
come back from the jungle where the tiger had 
taken him. So she said, "Nathoo, O Nathoo!" 
Mowgli did not show that he knew the name. 
" Dost thou not remember the day when I gave 
thee thy new shoes ? " 

She touched his foot, and it was almost as 
hard as horn. 

" No," she said, sorrowfully ; " those feet have 
never worn shoes, but thou art very like Nathoo, 
and thou shalt be my son." 

Mowgli was uneasy, because he had never 
been under a roof before; but as he looked at 
the thatch, he saw that he could tear it out any 
time if he wanted to get away, and that the 
window had no fastenings. 

" What is the good of a man," he said to 
himself at last, "if he does not understand 

man's talk ? Now I am as silly and dumb as 
a man would be with us in the jungle. I must 
learn their talk." 

It was not for fun that he had learned while 
he was with the wolves to imitate the challenge 
of bucks in the jungle and the grunt of the 
little wild pig. So, as soon as Messua said a 
word, Mowgli would imitate it almost perfectly, 
and before dark he had learned the name of 
nearly everything in the hut. 

There was a difficulty at bedtime, because 
Mowgli was not going to sleep under anything 
that looked so like a panther-trap as that hut, 
and when they shut the door he went through 
the window. " Give him his will," said Mes- 
sua's husband. " Remember he can never 
till now have slept on a bed. If he is indeed 
sent in the place of our son, he will not run 

So Mowgli slept in some long clean grass at 
the edge of the field, but before he had closed 
his eyes a soft gray nose poked him under the 

" Phew ! " said Gray Brother (he was the 
eldest of Mother Wolf's cubs). "This is a 
poor reward for following thee twenty miles. 
Thou smellest of wood-smoke and cattle — al- 
together like a man already. Wake, Little Bro- 
ther; I bring news." 

" Are all well in the jungle ? " said Mowgli, 
hugging him. 

" All except the wolves that were burned 
with the Red Flower. Now listen. Shere 
Khan has gone away, to hunt far off till his 
coat grows again, for he is badly singed. When 
he returns he swears that he will lay thy bones 
in the Waingunga River." 

" There are two words to that. I also have 
made a little promise. But to hear news is 
always good. I am tired to-night, — very tired 
with new things, Gray Brother, — but bring me 
the news always." 

"Thou wilt not forget that thou art a wolf? 
Men will not make thee forget ? " asked Gray 
Brother, anxiously. 

" Never. I will remember that I love thee 
and all in our cave ; but also I will always 
remember that I have been cast out of the 

" And that thou mayst be cast out of an- 




other. Men are only men, Little Brother, and 
their talk is like the talk of frogs in a pond. 
When I come down here again, I will wait for 
thee in the bamboos at the edge of the grazing- 

For three months after that night Mowgli 
hardly ever left the village gate ; he was so busy 
learning the ways and customs of men. First 
he had to wear a cloth round him, which an- 
noyed him horribly ; and then he had to learn 
about money, which he did not in the least 
understand, and about plowing, which he did 
not see the use of. Then the little children in 
the village made him very angry. Luckily, the 
Law of the Jungle had taught him to keep his 
temper, for in the jungle life and food depend 
on keeping your temper ; but when the chil- 
dren made fun of him because he would not 
play games or fly kites, or because he mispro- 
nounced some word, only the knowledge that 
it was unsportsmanlike to kill little naked cubs 
kept him from picking them up and tearing 
them in two. 

He did not know his own strength in the 
least. In the jungle he knew he was weak as 
compared with the beasts, but in the village 
people said that he was as strong as a bull. 
He certainly had no notion of what fear was, 
for when the village priest told him that the 
god in the temple would be angry with him if 
he ate the priests' mangoes, he picked up the 
image, brought it over to the priest's house, 
and asked the priest to make the god angry 
and he would be happy to fight him. It was a 
horrible scandal, but the priest hushed it up, 
and Messua's husband paid nearly seventy cents 
in silver to comfort the god. 

And Mowgli had not the faintest idea of the 
difference that caste makes between man and 
man. When the potter's donkey slipped in the 
clay-pit, Mowgli hauled it out by the tail, and 
helped to stack the pots for their journey to the 
market at Khanhiwara. That was very shock- 
ing, for the potter is a low-caste man, and his 
donkey is worse. When the priest scolded 
him, Mowgli threatened to put him on the 
donkey, too; and the priest told Messua's hus- 
band that Mowgli had better be set to work as 
soon as possible ; and the village head-man told 
Mowgli that he would have to 50 out with the 

buffaloes next day, and herd them while they 

No one was more pleased than Mowgli ; and 
that night, because he had been appointed a 
servant of the village, as it were, he went off 
to a circle that met every evening on a plat- 
form of masonry under a great fig-tree. It was 
the village club, and the head-man and the 
watchman and the barber (who knew all the 
gossip of the village), and old Buldeo, the village 
hunter, who had an old army musket, met and 
smoked. The monkeys sat and talked in the 
upper branches, and there was a hole under 
the platform where a cobra lived, and he had 
his little platter of milk every night because he 
was sacred ; and the old men sat around the 
tree and talked, and pulled at the big huqas 
(the water-pipes) till far into the night. They 
told wonderful tales of gods and men and 
ghosts ; and Buldeo told even more wonderful 
ones of the ways of beasts in the jungle, till the 
eyes of the children sitting outside the circle 
hung out of their heads. Most of the tales 
were about animals, for the jungle was always 
at their door. The deer and the wild pig 
grubbed up their crops, and now and again the 
tiger carried off a man at twilight, within sight 
of the village gates, as he came back from 

Mowgli, who knew something about the ways 
of the jungle people, had to cover his face with 
his hair not to show that he was laughing. But 
Buldeo, the musket across his knees, climbed 
on from one wonderful story to another, and 
Mowgli's shoulders shook. 

Buldeo was explaining how the tiger that had 
carried away Messua's son was a ghost tiger, 
and his body was inhabited by the ghost of a 
wicked, old money-lender, who had died some 
years ago. " And I know that this is true," he 
said, " because Purun Dasrs always limped from 
the blow that he got in a riot when his account- 
books were burned, and the tiger that I speak 
of he limps, too, for the tracks of his feet are 

" True, true! — that must be the truth!" said 
all the graybeards together. 

"Are all these tales such cobwebs and moon- 
talk ? " said Mowgli, suddenly. " That tiger 
limps because he was born lame, as every one 




knows. To talk of the soul of a money-lender 
in a beast that never had the courage of a jackal 
is child's talk ! " 

Buldeo was speechless with surprise for a 
moment, and the head-man stared. 

" Oho ! It is the jungle-brat, is it ? " said 
Buldeo. " If thou art so wise, better bring 

graze in the early morning, and bring them 
back at night, and the cattle that would tram- 
ple a white man to death submit to be banged, 
and bullied, and shouted at by children who 
hardly come up to their noses. So long as the 
boys keep with the herds they are absolutely 
safe, for not even the tiger will charge a mob 


(SEE PAGE 293.) 

his hide to Khanhiwara, for the Government 
has set a hundred rupees ($30) on his life. Bet- 
ter still, be quiet when thy elders speak." 

Mowgli got up to go. " All the evening I 
have lain here listening," he called back, over 
his shoulder, " and, except once or twice, Bul- 
deo has not said one word of truth concerning 
the jungle, which is at his very doors. How 
then shall I believe the tales of ghosts, and 
gods, and goblins which ye think ye have seen ? " 

" It is full time that boy went to herding," 
said the head-man of the village, while Buldeo 
puffed and snorted at Mowgli's insolence ; for 
as a rule native children are much more re- 
spectful to their elders than white children. 

The custom of most Indian villages is for a 
few boys to take the cattle and buffaloes out to 

of cattle. But if they straggle, to pick flowers 
or hunt lizards, they may be carried off. 

Mowgli went through the village street next 
dawn sitting on the back of Rama, the great 
herd bull, and the slaty-blue buffaloes, with their 
long, backward-sweeping horns and savage eyes, 
rose out of their byres, one by one, and followed 
him. Mowgli made it very clear to his com- 
panions that he was the master. He banged 
the buffaloes with a long, polished bamboo, and 
told the boys to graze the cattle by themselves 
while he went on with the buffaloes, and to be 
very careful not to stray away from the herd. 

An Indian grazing-ground is all rocks, and 
scrub, and tussocks, and little ravines, among 
which the herds scatter and disappear. The 
buffaloes generally keep to the pools and muddy 




places, where they lie wallowing or basking in 
the warm mud for hours. Mowgli drove them 
on to the edge of the plain where the Waingunga 
River came out of the jungle; then he dropped 
from Rama's neck, trotted off to a bamboo 
clump and found Gray Brother. " Ah," said 
Gray Brother, " I have waited here very many 
days. What is the meaning of this cattle-herd- 
ing work ? " 

" It is an order," said Mowgli ; " I am a vil- 
lage herd now. What news of Shere Khan?" 

the ravine by the dhdk-trnt in the center of the 
plain. We need not walk into Shere Khan's 

Then Mowgli picked out a shady place, and 
lay down and slept while the buffaloes grazed 
round him. Herding in India is one of the 
laziest things in the world. The cattle move 
and crunch, crunch, and lie down, and move on 
again, and they do not even low. They only 
grunt, and the buffaloes very seldom say any- 
thing. You can see them lie down in the 


" He has come back to these hills, and has 
waited here a long time for thee. Now he has 
gone off again, for the game is scarce. But he 
surely means to kill thee." 

" Very good," said Mowgli. " So long as he 
is away do thou or one of the four sit on that 
rock, where I can see thee as I come out of the 
village. When he comes back, wait for me in 

muddy pools one after another, and work their 
way in the mud till only their noses and 
staring china-blue eyes show above the surface, 
and there they lie like logs. The sun makes 
the rocks dance in the heat, and you hear one 
kite (never any more) whistling, almost out of 
sight overhead, and you know that if you died, 
or a cow died, that kite would come down like 

l8 9 4-] 




a bullet, and the next kite miles away would 
see him drop and follow, and the next, and the 
next, and almost before you were dead there 
would be a score of them come out of nowhere. 
Then you sleep and wake and sleep again, and 
weave little baskets out of dried grass and put 
grasshoppers in them; or catch two praying- 
mantises and make them fight; or string a 
necklace of red and black jungle-nuts; or watch 
a lizard basking on a rock, or a snake hunting a 
frog near the wallows. Then you sing end- 
less songs with odd native quavers at the end 
of them, and the day seems longer than most 
people's whole lives; and perhaps you make a 
mud castle with mud figures of men and horses 
and buffaloes, and put reeds into the men's 
hands, and play that you are a king and they 
are your armies, or that they are gods and 
you ought to worship them. Then evening 
comes and you call, and the buffaloes lumber 
up out of the sticky mud with noises like gun- 
shots going off one after the other, and you all 
string across the gray plain back to the twink- 
ling village lights. 

Day after day Mowgli would lead the buffa- 
loes out in this way, and day after day he would 
see Gray Brother's back a mile and a half 
away across the plain (that told him Shere 
Khan had not come back), and day after day 
he would lie on the grass listening to the noises 
round him, and dreaming of old days in the 
jungle. If Shere Khan had made a false step 
with his lame paw up in the jungles by the 
Waingunga, Mowgli would have heard him in 
those long dead-still mornings. 

At last the day came when he did not see 
Gray Brother at the signal place, and he 
laughed and headed the buffaloes for the ravine 
by the d/id/;-lree which was all covered with 
golden-red flowers. There sat Gray Brother 
with every bristle on his back lifted. 

" He has given two months to throw thee off 
thy guard. He crossed the ranges last night with 
Tabaqui, hot-foot on thy trail," said the wolf. 

Mowgli frowned. " I am not afraid of Shere 
Khan, but Tabaqui is very cunning," he said. 

" Have no fear," Gray Brother answered, 
licking his lips a little. " I met Tabaqui in 
the dawn. Now he is telling all his wisdom to 
the kites, but he told me everything before I 

broke his back. Shere Khan's plan is to wait 
for thee at the village gate this evening — for 
thee and for no one else. He is lying up now, 
in the big ravine of the Waingunga." 

" Has he eaten to-day, or does he hunt 
empty ? " said Mowgli, for the answer meant 
just life or death to him. 

" He killed at dawn, — a pig, — and he has 
drunk too. Remember, Shere Khan could 
never fast even for the sake of revenge." 

" Oh ! Fool, fool ! What a cub's cub it is ! 
Eaten and drunk too, has he, and he thinks that 
I shall wait till he has slept ! Now, where does 
he lie up ? If there were but ten of us we 
might pull him down as he snores. These 
buffaloes will not charge unless they wind him, 
and I cannot speak their language. Can we 
get behind his track that they may smell it ? " 

" He swam far down the Waingunga to cut 
that off," said Gray Brother. 

" Tabaqui told him that, I know. He would 
never have thought of it, alone." Mowgli 
stood with his finger in his mouth, thinking. 
" The big ravine of the Waingunga. That 
opens out on the plain not half a mile from 
here. I can take the herd round through the 
jungle to the head of the ravine and then 
sweep down, but he would slink out at the 
foot. We must block that end. Gray Bro- 
ther, canst thou cut the herd in two for me ? " 

" Not I alone — but I have brought a wise 
helper." Gray Brother trotted off" and dropped 
into a hole. Then there popped up a huge 
gray head that Mowgli knew well, and the hot 
air was filled with the most desolate cry of 
all the jungle — the hunting-howl of a wolf at 

" Akela ! Akela ! " said Mowgli, clapping his 
hands. " I might have known that thou 
wouldst not forget. Cut them in two, Akela. 
Keep the cows and calves together, and the 
bulls and the plow-buffaloes by themselves." 

The two wolves ran in and out of the herd, 
which snorted and threw up its head, and sepa- 
rated into two clumps. In one the cow buffa- 
loes stood and glared and pawed with the 
calves in the center, ready if a wolf would 
only stay still to charge down and trample 
the life out of him. In the other the bulls 
and the young bulls snorted and stamped, 

2 9 8 



but though they looked more angry they were 
much less dangerous than the cows, for they 
had no calves to protect. No six men could 
have divided the herd so neatly. 

'• What orders ? " panted Akela. " They are 
trying to join again." 

Mowgli slipped on to Rama's back. " Drive 
the bulls away to the left, Akela. Gray Bro- 
ther, when we are gone hold the cows together, 
and drive them into the foot of the ravine." 

'• How far ? " said Gray Brother, panting 
and snapping. 

" Till the sides are higher than Shere Khan 
can jump," shouted Mowgli. " Hold them 
there till we come down." The bulls swept 
off as Akela bayed, and Gray Brother stopped 
in front of the cows. They charged down on 
him, and he ran just before them to the foot 
of the ravine, as Akela drove the bulls far away 
to the left. 

" Well done ! Another charge and they are 
fairly in. Careful, now — careful, Akela! A 
snap too much, and the bulls will charge. 
Huxah i This is wilder work than driving 
black-buck. Didst thou think these creatures 
could move so swiftly ? " said Mowgli. 

" I have — have hunted these too in my 
time," gasped Akela in the dust. " Shall I 
turn them into the jungle ? " 

" Ay ! Turn. Swiftly, turn them. Rama is 
mad with rage. Oh, if I could only tell him 
what I need of him to-day ! " 

The bulls were turned to the right this time, 
and crashed into the standing thicket. The 
other herd-children, watching with the cattle 
half a mile away, hurried to the village as fast 
as their legs could carry them, crying that the 
buffaloes had gone mad and run away. But 
Mowgli's plan was simple enough. All he 
wanted to do was to make a big circle up 
hill and get at the head of the ravine, and then 
take the bulls down it and catch Shere Khan 
between the bulls and the cows; for he knew 
that after a meal and a full drink Shere Khan 
would not be in any condition to fight or to 
clamber up the sides of the ravine. He began 
to soothe the buffaloes now by voice, and Akela 
dropped far to the rear, only -whimpering once 
or twice to hurry the stragglers. It was a 
long, long circle, for they did not wish to 

get too near the ravine and give Shere Khan 
warning. At last Mowgli rounded up the be- 
wildered herd at the head of the ravine on a 
grassy patch that sloped steeply down to the 
ravine itself. From that height you could see 
across the tops of the trees down to the plain 
below ; but what Mowgli looked at was the 
sides of the ravine, and he saw with a great 
deal of satisfaction that they were nearly straight 
up and down, and the vines and creepers that 
hung over them would give no foothold to a 
tiger who tried to get out. 

" Let them breathe, Akela," he said, holding 
up his hand. " They have not winded him yet. 
Let them breathe. I must tell Shere Khan 
that I come." 

He put his hands to his mouth and shouted 
down the ravine, — it was almost like shouting 
down a tunnel, — and the echoes jumped from 
rock to rock. 

After a long time there came back the drawl- 
ing, sleepy snarl of a full-fed tiger just wakened. 

"Who calls?" said Shere Khan, while a 
splendid peacock fluttered up out of the ravine 

" I, Mowgli. Cattle thief, it is time to come 
to the Council Rock! Down — hurry them 
down, Akela. Down, Rama, down ! " 

The herd paused for an instant at the edge 
of the slope, but Akela gave tongue in the full 
wolf's hunting-yell, and the buffaloes pitched 
over one after the other just as steamers shoot 
rapids, the sand and stones spurting up round 
them. Once started, there was no chance of 
stopping, and before they were fairly in the bed 
of the ravine Rama had winded Shere Khan 
and bellowed. 

" Ha ! Ha ! " said Mowgli, on his back. 
" Now thou knowest ! " and the torrent of 
black horns, foaming muzzles, and staring eyes 
tore down the ravine just as boulders go down 
in flood time ; the weaker buffaloes being shoul- 
dered out to the sides of the ravine where they 
tore through the creepers. They knew what 
the business was before them — the terrible 
charge of the buffalo-herd against which no 
tiger can hope to stand. Shere Khan heard 
the thunder of their feet, picked himself up, 
and lumbered down the ravine, looking from 
side to side for some way of escape, but the 



walls of the ravine were straight and he had to 
keep on, heavy with his dinner and his drink, 
willing to do anything rather than fight. The 
herd splashed through the pool he had just left, 
bellowing till the ravine rang. Mowgli heard 
an answering bellow from the foot of the ravine, 
saw Shere Khan turn (the lame tiger knew if the 
worst came to the worst it was better to meet 
the bulls than the cows with their calves) and 

them, or they will be fighting one another. 
Drive them away, Akela. Hai, Rama ! Hai, 
Hai ! Hai ! my children ! Softly now, softly ! 
It is all over." 

Akela and Gray Brother ran to and fro nip- 
ping the buffaloes' legs, and though the herd 
wheeled once to charge up the ravine again, 
Mowgli managed to turn Rama, and the others 
followed him to the wallows. 

1 v *' V V , ,J 



then Rama tripped, stumbled, and went on 
again over something soft, and, with the bulls at 
his heels, crashed full into the other herd, while 
the weaker buffaloes were whirled clean off 
their feet. That charge carried both herds out 
into the plain, goring and stamping and snort- 
ing. Mowgli watched his time, and slipped off 
Rama's neck, laying about him right and left 
with his stick. 

" Quick, Akela ! Break them up. Scatter 

Shere Khan needed no more trampling. He 
was dead, his lame paw doubled up under him, 
and the kites were coming for him already. 

" Brothers, that was a dog's death," said 
Mowgli, feeling for the knife that he carried 
in a sheath round his neck. " But he would 
never have shown fight. His hide will look 
well on the Council Rock. We must get to 
work swiftly." 

A boy trained among men would never have 





dreamed of skinning a ten-foot tiger alone, but 
Mowgli knew better than any one else how an 
animal's skin is fitted on, and how it can be 
taken off. But it was hard work at the best, 
and Mowgli slashed, and tore, and grunted for 
an hour, while the wolves lolled out their 
tongues, or came forward and tugged as he 
ordered them. Presently a hand fell on his 
shoulder, and looking up he saw Buldeo with 
the army musket. The children had told the 
village about the buffalo stampede, and Buldeo 
went out only too anxious to correct Mowgli for 
not taking better care of the herd. The wolves 
had dropped out of sight as soon as they saw 
the hunter. 

" What is this folly ? " said Buldeo, angrily. 
" To think that thou canst skin a tiger ! 
Where did thy buffaloes kill him ? It is the 
Lame Tiger, too, and there is a hundred rupees 
on his head ! Well, well, we will overlook thy 
letting the herd run off, and perhaps I will give 
thee one of the rupees of the reward when I 
have taken the skin to Khanhiwara." He fum- 
bled in his waist-cloth for flint and steel, and 
stooped down to singe Shere Khan's whiskers. 
Most native hunters singe a tiger's whiskers to 
prevent his ghost from haunting them. 

" Hum ! " said Mowgli, half to himself, as he 
ripped back the skin of a forepaw. " So thou 
wilt take the hide to Khanhiwara for the reward, 
and perhaps give me one rupee ? Now it is my 
mind that I need the skin for my own use. 
Heh ! old man, take away that 
fire ! " 

" What talk is this to the chief 
hunter of the village ? Thy 
luck and the stupidity of thy _'-_ : 

buffaloes have helped thee to _ _-?r 

this kill. The tiger has just fed, 
or he would have gone twenty 
miles by this time. Thou canst 
not even skin him properly, lit- 
tle beggar brat, and forsooth I, 
Buldeo, must be told not to 
singe his whiskers ! Mowgli, I 
will not give thee one anna of 
the reward, but only a very big 
beating. Leave the carcass." 

" By the bull that bought 
me," said Mowgli, who was try- 

ing to get at the shoulder, " must I stay bab- 
bling to an old ape all noon ? Here, Akela, 
this man plagues me." 

Buldeo, who was still stooping over Shere 
Khan's head, found himself sprawling on the 
grass, with a gray wolf standing over him, while 
Mowgli went on skinning as though he were 
alone in all India. 

" Ye-es," he said between his teeth. " Thou 
art right, Buldeo. Thou wilt never give me 
one anna of the reward. There is an old war 
between this Lame Tiger and myself — a very 
old war, and — I have won." 

To do Buldeo justice, if he had been ten 
years younger he would have taken his chance 
with Akela had he met the wolf in the woods, 
but a wolf who obeyed the orders of a boy 
who had private wars with man-eating tigers 
was not a common animal. It was sorcery, 
magic of the worst kind, thought Buldeo, and 
he wondered whether the amulet round his 
neck would protect him. He lay as still as still, 
expecting every minute to see Mowgli turn into 
a tiger, too. 

" Maharaj ! Great King ! " he said at last in a 
husky whisper. 

" Yes," said Mowgli, without turning his 
head, but chuckling a little. 

" I am an old man. I did not know that 
thou wast anything more than a herd-boy. 
May I rise up and go away, or will thy servant 
tear me to pieces ? " 

'when the moon rose over the plain the villagers saw mowgli trotting 
across, with two wolves at his heels." (see page 302. ) 




" Go, and peace go with thee. Only, another 
time do not meddle with my game. Let him 
go, Akela." 

Buldeo hobbled away to the village as fast as 
he could, looking back over his shoulder in case 
Mowgli should change into something with four 
legs. When he got to 
the village he told a tale 
of magic, and enchant- 
ment, and sorcery that 
made the priest look 
very grave. 

Mowgli went on with 
his work, but it was 
nearly twilight before he 

" Now we must hide 
the skin and take the 
buffaloes home ! Help 
me to herd them, 

The herd rounded up 
in the smoky twilight, 
and when they were near 
the village Mowgli saw 
lights, and heard the 
conches and bells in 
the temple blowing and 
banging. Half the vil- 
lage seemed to be wait- 
ing for him at the 
gate. " That is because 
I have killed Shere 
Khan," he said to him- 
self; but a shower of 
stones whistled about 
his ears, and the vil- 
lagers shouted : " Sor- 
cerer! Wolf's brat! Jungle-demon ! Go away ! 
Get hence quickly, or the priest will turn thee 
into a wolf again. Shoot, Buldeo, shoot ! " 

The old musket went off and a young buffalo 
bellowed with pain. 

"More sorcery!" shouted the villagers. "He 
can turn bullets. Buldeo, that was thy buffalo ! " 

"Now what is this?" said Mowgli, be- 
wildered, as more stones flew. 

" They are not unlike the Pack, these bro- 
thers of thine," said Akela, sitting down with 
a grunt. " It is in my head that, if bul- 

lets mean anything, they would cast thee 

"Wolf! Wolf's cub! Go away!" shouted 
the priest, waving a sprig of the sacred tuhi 

" Again ? Last time it was because I was a 



man. This time it is because I am a wolf. 
Let us go, Akela," said Mowgli. 

A woman — it was Messua — ran across to 
the herd, and cried, " Oh, my son, my son ! 
They say thou art a sorcerer who can turn 
himself into a beast at will. I do not believe, 
but go away or they will kill thee. Buldeo 
says thou art a wizard, but I know thou hast 
avenged my Nathoo's death." 

" Come back, Messua ! " shouted the crowd. 
" Come back, or we will stone thee, too." 

Mowgli laughed a little short ugly laugh, for 



a stone had hit him in the mouth. " Run 
back, Messua. This is one of the foolish tales 
they tell under the big tree at dusk. I have at 
least paid for thy son's life. Farewell ; and run 
quickly, for I shall send the herd in as swiftly 
as their brickbats come out. I am no wizard, 
Messua. Farewell ! " 

" Now, once more, Akela," he cried. " Bring 
the herd in." 

The buffaloes were anxious enough to get to 
the village. They hardly needed Akela's yell, 
but charged through the gate like a whirlwind, 
scattering the crowd right and left. 

" Keep count ! " shouted Mowgli scornfully. 
" It may be that I have stolen one of them. 
Keep count, for I will do your herding no 
more. Fare you well, children of men, and 
thank Messua that I do not come in with my 
wolves and hunt you up and down your 

He turned on his heel and walked away with 
the Lone Wolf; and as he looked up at the 
stars he felt happy. " No more sleeping in 
traps for me, Akela," he said. " Let us get 
Shere Khan's skin and go away. No ; we will 
not hurt the village, for the woman Messua was 
kind to me." 

When the moon rose over the plain, making 
it look all milky, the horrified villagers saw 
Mowgli, with two wolves at his heels and a 
bundle on his head, trotting across at the steady 
wolf's trot that eats up the long miles like fire. 
Then they banged the temple bells and blew 
the conches louder than ever ; and Messua 
cried, and Buldeo embroidered the story of his 
adventures in the jungle, till he ended by saying 
that Akela stood up on his hind legs and walked 
like a man. 

The moon was just going down when Mow- 
gli and the two wolves came to the hill of the 
Council Rock, and they stopped at Mother 
Wolf's cave. 

" They have cast me out from the Man Pack, 
Mother," shouted Mowgli, " but I come with 
the hide of Shere Khan to keep my word ! " 
Mother Wolf walked stiffly from the cave with 
the cubs behind her, and her eyes glowed as 
she saw the skin. 

" I told him on that day when he crammed 

his head and shoulders into this cave, hunting 
for thy life, little frog — I told him that the 
hunter would be the hunted. It is well done," 
she said. 

" Little brother, it is well done," said a deep 
voice in the thicket. " We were lonely in the 
jungle without thee," and Bagheera came run- 
ning to Mowgli's bare feet. They clambered 
up the Council Rock together, and Mowgli 
spread the skin out on the flat stone where 
Akela used to sit, and pegged it down with four 
slivers of bamboo, and Akela lay down upon it, 
and cried the old call to the Council. " Look, 
look well, O Wolves," exactly as he had cried it 
when Mowgli was first brought there. 

Ever since Akela had been deposed, the pack 
had been without a leader, hunting and fighting 
at their own pleasure. But they answered the 
call through habit, and some of them were 
lame from the traps they had fallen into, and 
some limped from shot-wounds, and some were 
mangy from eating bad food, and many were 
missing; but they came to the Council Rock, 
as many as were left of them, and they saw 
Shere Khan's striped hide on the rock, and the 
huge claws dangling at the end of the empty 
dangling feet. 

" Look well, O Wolves. Have I kept my 
word ? " said Mowgli ; and the wolves bayed 
Yes, and one tattered wolf cried : 

" Lead us again, O Akela. Lead us again, 
O man cub, for we be sick of this lawlessness, 
and we would be the Free People once more." 

" Nay," purred Bagheera, " that may not be. 
When ye are full fed, the madness may come 
upon you again. Not for nothing are ye called 
the Free People. Ye fought for freedom, and 
it is yours. Eat it now, O Wolves." 

" Man Pack and Wolf Pack have cast me 
out," said Mowgli. " I will hunt alone in the 
jungle henceforward." 

" And we will hunt with thee," said the four 

So Mowgli went away and hunted with the 
four cubs in the jungle from that day on. Still 
he was not always alone, because years after- 
ward he became a man and took service and 

But that is a story for grown-ups. 


By Mary Bradley. 

" Oh, dearie me ! " one morning sighed our merry little Lou, 
"I have n't got a single thing — a single thing to do! 
I wish a fairy-godmother would come and talk with me, 
And let me wish three wishes ; I wonder what they 'd be ? 

"Well, first, — now let me think a while, — I 'd wish for bags of 
gold ; 
A hundred million dollars I guess I 'd make them hold. 
And then I 'd wish for golden hair, and beautiful blue eyes, 
And a real grown-up lover to praise me to the skies; 
I 'd wish — oh, yes! to be a queen, and he should be the king, 
With courtiers, and trumpeters, and all that sort of thing. 
We 'd ride on milk-white palfreys all dressed in gold and green, 
And the people everywhere would shout, 'Long live our gracious Queen! 
Oh, would n't it be lovely ? " sighed foolish little Lou ; 
" I wish the fairy- godmother was here, and it was true." 

Just then her own real mother called : " Oh, Lulu, child, come here ! 

I wish you 'd rock the baby a little while, my dear. 

He 's dropping off to sleep, you see, — he '11 soon be quiet now. 

And then I wish you 'd shell the peas, while Bridget milks the cow. 

She says she 's ' clane bewildered ' to know which way to turn, 

For Sandy 's in the mowing-field, and Nora 's got to churn : 

I wish you 'd set the table, and see what you can do 

To help us with the little things — that 's mother's daughter Lou!" 

Up jumped the little maiden, with a twinkle in her eyes, 
And a merry notion in her head both whimsical and wise : 
" My mother wished three wishes ! Now I shall have the fun 
Of being fairy-godmother, and granting every one." 

As cheery as a cricket she went about all day, 

And out of every little task she made a sort of play, 

Until her happy laughter, and the tuneful song she sung 

Had sweetened Bridget's temper, and stopped her fretting tongue. 

The baby, too, she humored in many a baby whim ; 

He cried for her at bed-time to go up-stairs with him ; 

And her mother kissed her fondly when she found her nodding there, 

With his chubby fingers tangled in his sister's curly hair. 

"You 've been my comfort-daughter this livelong day," she said; 

But Lulu hardly understood — the little sleepy-head ! 
" It was such fun," she murmured, in a dreamy, drowsy way, 
"To be a fairy-godmother! I 've had a lovely day." 


By T- O. Davidson. 

When the captain of the Norwegian bark 
" Wave King " sailed for the port of New York, 
he expected as a matter of course to meet some 
icebergs on the way. He also expected to 
engage a tug-boat to tow him into the harbor 
if he found the weather at Sandy Hook boister- 
ous or the wind too strong against him to sail 
in alone ; but as for having a present of tow 
in the middle of the Atlantic, and free of charge, 
that was a piece of good fortune of which he 
never dreamed in his most economical mo- 
menst. Vet, improbable as it seems, was the 
very treat he unexpectedly received. 

Everything went very well with the bark until 
half through her voyage, when one day the 
mate (who was an arctic weather-prophet) re- 
ported that ice-fields and icebergs were near. 

He knew it, he said, because of the light 
loom along the ocean's rim ; also from the look 
and coldness of the sea-water. A bright look- 
out was therefore kept, and sure enough, about 
noon a great ice-field, or " floe " became visible 
in the haze, dead ahead. There it lay right in 
their track, and extending as far on each side 
as their best telescope was able to make it out. 

For several miles on both sides the bark now 



sailed back and forth, the lookouts searching 
for an opening in the beautiful, trembling, 
glistening white fields; but none could be 
found, although the fair blue water lay tempt- 
ingly beyond, in full sight. 

Presently the captain noticed that the ice- 
field under the pressure of the fresh breeze was 
advancing toward them, and he gave orders to 
" 'bout ship." 

As the vessel went about, a large iceberg 
was noticed right astern in the light haze, and, 
strange to relate, it also appeared to be coming 
toward them. At first this caused the sailors 
much uneasiness, for they feared to be caught 
between it and the field of ice, which would, 
of course, mean the destruction of the bark 
and death to all on board. 

A little careful steering, however, placed 
them safely to one side of the berg, and the 
men gathered along the ship's side to watch 
the monster as it went majestically by, the 
waves dashing high against its weather side as 
if in vain endeavor to hold it back, while the 
wind blew little drifts of snow from its glisten- 
ing, craggy top. 

All icebergs float with a much larger pro- 
portion of their mass beneath the waves than 
above them, and the captain knew that some 
strong lower-current was pushing against the 
under-water portion of this berg, and urging it 
along against the winds and surface currents. 
He wondered what would result when the berg 
and ice-field met. Which would gain the mas- 
tery ? Why, the heavy berg, of course. 

Then a bright idea flashed through his mind, 

which he instantly began to put in execution 
by ordering the steersman to turn the bark and 
run her right in behind the berg. 

Going as close as he dared to the great ice- 
mountain, he ordered the crew to lower a boat 
and take a rope and hitch on to it. This they 
did, making fast to a low pinnacle, or foot-hill. 
Then sail was shortened to flying-jib and 
spanker, just enough to keep her steady and 
take some strain off the rope ; and lo ! the ship 
was towing kindly in the wake of the berg, 
while all hands awaited developments. 

They had not long to wait. Steadily and 
surely the ice-mountain bore down on the ice- 
field. There came a great crash, and a little 
shiver of the berg that could be felt on the tow- 
line. Then followed a mighty upheaval of the 
edge of the floe as the berg plowed into and 
tossed the sparkling masses of ice in air, or 
shoved them masterfully aside. 

With bang, and smash, and roar, the mighty 
contest went on. But the berg proceeded se- 
renely, leaving a broad swath behind in which 
the bark rode safely until clear water was once 
more reached. 

Then, as quickly as possible, the rope was 
cast off, all sail set, and a respectful distance 
put between the bark and berg, for the captain 
feared lest some portion of his icy tow-boat 
might fall upon them, or a part, hidden far 
beneath the ocean's surface, might break off 
and come rushing upward in a cloud of spray, 
and, striking his vessel, do him the very damage 
from which he had so skilfully preserved her 
by taking a tow from the berg. 


I 'll build a house of lollypops 
Just suited, Sweetheart, to your taste; 
The windows shall be lemon-drops, 
The doors shall be of jujube paste — 

Heigh-ho, if you '11 be mine ! 
With peppermints I '11 pave the walks ; 
A little garden, too, I '11 sow 
With seeds that send up sugared stalks 
On which the candied violets grow — 

Heigh-ho, my Valentine ! 

Some seats of sassafras I '11 make 
Because I know you think it 's nice; 
The cushions shall be jelly-cake 
Laced all around with lemon-ice — 

Heigh-ho, if you '11 be mine ! 
We '11 have a party every day, 
And feast on cream and honeydew ; 
And though you 're only six, we '11 play 
That I am just as young as you — 

Heigh-ho, my Valentine ! 

Anna M. Pratt. 

Vol. XXL— 39. 


By Dr. Charles Alexander Eastman. 

hi. games and sports. a leading arrow was shot at random into the 

air. Before it fell to the ground, a volley from 

The Indian boy was a prince of the wilder- the bows of the participants followed. Each 

ness. He had but very little work to do during player was quick to see the direction and speed 

the period of his boyhood. His principal occu- of the leading arrow, and he tried to send his 

pation was the practising of a few simple but own with the same speed and at an equal 

rigid rules in the arts of warfare and the chase, height, so that when it fell it would be closer 

Aside from this, he was master of his time. than any of the others to the first. 

Whatever was required of us boys was It was considered out of place to shoot an 

quickly performed; then the field was clear arrow by first sighting the object aimed at. 

for our games and plays. There was always This was usually impracticable, because the 

keen competition between us. We felt very object was almost always in motion, while the 

much as our fathers did in hunting and war — hunter himself was often on the back of a pony 

each one strove to excel all the others. It is in full gallop. Therefore, it was the offhand 

true that our savage life was a precarious one, shot that the Indian boy sought to master, 

and full of dreadful catastrophes ; however, There was another game with arrows which 

this never prevented us from enjoying our sports was characterized by gambling, and was gener- 

to the fullest extent. As we left our tepees in ally confined to the men. 

the morning, we were never sure that our The races were an every-day occurrence, 

scalps would not dangle from a pole in the At noon the boys were usually gathered by 

afternoon ! It was an uncertain life, to be sure, some pleasant sheet of water, and as soon as 

Yet we observed that the fawns skipped and the ponies were watered, they were allowed 

played happily while the gray wolves might to graze for an hour or two, while the boys 

be peeping forth from behind the hills, ready stripped for their noonday sports. A boy might 

to tear them limb from limb. say, " I can't run, but I challenge you for fifty 

Our sports were molded by the life and cus- paces," to some other whom he considered his 

toms of our people — indeed, we practised only equal. A former hero, when beaten, would 

what we expected to do when grown. Our often explain his defeat by saying, " I had 

games were feats with the bow and arrow, foot drunk too much water ! " Boys of all ages 

and pony races, wrestling, swimming, and imi- were paired for a " spin," and the little red 

tations of the customs and habits of our fathers, men cheered on their favorites with spirit ! As 

We had sham fights with mud balls and willow soon as this was ended, the pony races fol- 

wands, we played lacrosse, made war upon lowed. All the speedy ponies were picked out, 

bees, shot winter arrows (which were used only and riders chosen. If a boy said, " I cannot 

in that season), and coasted upon ribs of ani- ride," what a shout went up ! Such derision ! 

mals and buffalo-robes. Last of all came the swimming. A little 

Our games with bow and arrow were usually urchin would hang to his pony's long tail, while 

combined with hunting ; but as I shall take the latter held only his head above water and 

hunting for the subject of another letter, I will glided sportively along. Finally the animals 

speak only of such as were purely plays. were driven into a fine field of grass, and we 

No sooner did the boys get together than turned our attention to other games, 

they divided into squads, and chose sides ; then Lacrosse was an older game, and was con- 




fined entirely to the Sisseton and Santee Sioux. 
Shinny, such as is enjoyed by white boys on 
ice, is now played by the western Sioux. The 
" moccasin-game," although sometimes played 
by the boys, was intended mainly for adults. 

The " mud-and- willow " fight was rather a 
severe and dangerous sport. A lump of soft 
clay was stuck on one end of a limber and 
springy willow wand, to be thrown with consid- 
erable force — as boys throw apples from sticks. 
When there were fifty or a hundred on each 
side, the battle became warm ; but anything 
to arouse the bravery of Indian boys seemed 
to them a good and wholesome sport. 

Wrestling was largely indulged in by all of 
us. It may seem odd, but the wrestling was by 
a great number of boys at once — from ten to 
any number on a side. It was really a battle, 
but each one chose his own opponent. The rule 
was that if a boy sat down, he was let alone ; 
but as long as he remained standing within the 
field he was open to an attack. No one struck 
with the hand, but all manner of tripping with 
legs and feet and hurting with the knees was 
allowed ; altogether it was an exhausting pas- 
time — fully equal to the American game of 
foot-ball. Only the boy who was an athlete 
could really enjoy it. 

One of our most curious sports was a war 
upon the nests of wild bees. We imagined our- 
selves about to make an attack upon the Chip- 
pewas or some other tribal foe. We all painted 
and stole cautiously upon the nest; then, with a 
rush and a war-whoop, sprang upon the object 
of our attack and endeavored to destroy it. 
But it seemed that the bees were always on the 
alert, and never entirely surprised ; for they 
always raised quite as many scalps as did their 
bold assailants ! After the onslaught upon the 
bees was ended, we usually followed it by a 
pretended scalp-dance. 

On the occasion of my first experience in 
this mode of warfare, there were two other 
little boys who also were novices. One of 
them, particularly, was too young to indulge in 
such an exploit. As it was the custom of the 
Indians, when they killed or wounded an enemy 
on the battle-field, to announce the act in a 
loud voice, we did the same. My friend Little 
Wound (as I will call him, for I do not remem- 

ber his name), being quite small, was unable to 
reach the nest until it had been well trampled 
upon and broken, and the insects had made a 
counter charge with such vigor as to repulse 
and scatter our numbers in every direction. 
However, he evidently did not want to retreat 
without any honors; so he bravely jumped 
upon the nest and yelled : 

" I, brave Little Wound, to-day kill the only 
fierce enemy ! " 

Scarcely was the last word uttered when he 
screamed as if stabbed to the heart. One of 
his older companions shouted : 

" Dive into the water ! Run ! Dive into the 
water ! " for there was a lake near by. This 
advice he obeyed. 

When we had reassembled and were indulg- 
ing in our mimic dance, Little Wound was not 
allowed to dance. He was considered not to 
be in existence — he had been "killed" by our 
enemies, the Eee tribe. Poor little fellow ! 
His tear-stained face was sad and ashamed, as 
he sat on a fallen log and watched the dance. 
Although he might well have styled himself 
one of the noble dead who had died for their 
country, yet he was not unmindful that he had 
screamed, and that this weakness would be apt 
to recur to him many times in the future. 

We had some quiet plays which we alter- 
nated with the more severe and warlike ones. 
Among them were throwing wands and snow- 
arrows. In the winter we coasted much. We 
had no " double-rippers " nor toboggans, but 
six or seven of the long ribs of a buffalo, fas- 
tened together at the larger end, answered all 
practical purposes. Sometimes a strip of bass- 
wood bark, four feet long and half a foot wide, 
was used with much skill. We stood on one 
end and held the other, using the inside of the 
bark for the outside, and thus coasted down 
long hills with remarkable speed. 

Sometimes we played " Medicine Dance." 
This to us was almost what " playing church " is 
among white children. Our people seemed to 
think it an act of irreverence to imitate these 
dances, but we children thought otherwise; 
therefore we quite frequently enjoyed 111 secret 
one of these performances. We used to ob- 
serve all the important ceremonies and cus- 
toms attending it, and it required something of 

3 o8 



an actor to reproduce the dramatic features 
of the dance. The real dances usually occu- 
pied a day and a night, and the program was 
long and varied, so that it was not easy to exe- 
cute all the details perfectly; but the Indian 
children are born imitators. 

I was often selected as choirmaster on these 
occasions, for I had happened to learn many 
of the medicine songs, and was quite an apt 
mimic. My grandmother, who was a noted 
medicine woman, on hearing of these sacri- 
legious acts (as she called them), warned me 
that if any of the medicine men should learn 
of my conduct, they would punish me terribly 
by shriveling my limbs with slow disease. 

Occasionally we also played " white man." 
Our knowledge of the pale-face was limited, but 
we had learned that he brought goods when- 
ever he came, and that our people exchanged 
furs for his merchandise. We also knew, some- 
how, that his complexion was white, that he 
wore short hair on his head and long hair on 
his face, and that he had coat, trousers, and 
hat, and did not patronize blankets in the day- 
time. This was the picture we had formed of 
the white man. So we painted two or three of 
our number with white clay, and put on them 
birchen hats, which we sewed up for the occa- 
sion, fastened a piece of fur to their chins for a 
beard, and altered their costume as much as 
lay within our power. The white of the birch- 
bark was made to answer for their white shirts. 
Their merchandise consisted of sand for sugar, 
wild beans for coffee, dried leaves for tea, pul- 
verized earth for gunpowder, pebbles for bul- 
lets, and clear water for dangerous "fire-water." 
We traded for these goods with skins of squir- 
rels, rabbits, and small birds. 

When we played "hunting buffale" we would 
send a few good runners off on the open prai- 
rie with meat and other edibles ; then start 
a few of our swiftest runners to chase them 

and capture the food. Once we were engaged 
in this sport when a real hunt by the men was 
going on near by; yet we did not realize that it 
was so close until, in the midst of our play, an 
immense buffalo appeared, coming at full speed 
directly toward us. Our mimic buffalo hunt 
turned into a very real " buffalo scare " ! As it 
was near the edge of a forest, we soon disap- 
peared among the leaves like a covey of young 
prairie-chickens, and some hid in the bushes 
while others took refuge in tall trees. 

In the water we always had fun. When we 
had no ponies, we often had swimming-matches 
of our own, and we sometimes made rafts with 
which we crossed lakes and rivers. It was a 
common thing to " duck " a young or timid 
boy, or to carry him into deep water to strug- 
gle as best he might. 

I remember a perilous ride with a compan- 
ion on an unmanageable log, when we both 
were less than seven years old. The older boys 
had put us on this uncertain bark and pushed 
us out into the swift current of the river. I 
cannot speak for my comrade in distress, but 
I can say now that I would rather ride on a 
wild bronco any day than try to stay on and 
steady a short log in a river. I never knew 
how we managed to prevent a shipwreck on 
that voyage, and to reach the shore ! 

We had many curious wild pets. There 
were young foxes, bears, wolves, fawns, ra- 
coons, buffalo calves, and birds of all kinds, 
tamed by various boys. My pets were different 
at different times, but I particularly remember 
one. I once had a grizzly cub for a pet, and so 
far as he and I were concerned our relations 
were charming and very close. But I hardly 
know whether he made more enemies for me 
or I for him. It was his custom to treat un- 
mercifully every boy who injured me. He was 
despised for his conduct in my interest, and I 
was hated on account of his interference. 

( To be cotUinued. ) 



By Kate W. Hamilton. 

OW bleak outside 
lay the landscape 
of a New England 
winter ! — leafless 
trees and snow- 
covered earth be- 
neath a dull gray 
sky. So pale the 
daylight was that all 
of it that found its way 
through the small win- 
jw but dimly lighted the 
room in which Dorothy stood, 
turning her anxious gaze from the world with- 
out to the cozier scene within. The crackling 
logs in the wide fireplace glowed warmly, and 
by their light revealed the rude settle (where 
a bed had been made for an invalid), and 
brought into clear relief the lithe, erect form 
of the young man who was studying Dorothy's 
troubled face. 

" It can be done," he urged, " and it is all 
she wants now. I fear me the little grand- 
mother is — going." 

Dorothy feared it also, but her fair face grew 
a shade paler when the thought was put into 
words. Her eyes sought the settle where the 
small, wasted figure lay — the thin, worn features 
and silvery hair telling of age, though the dark 
eyes were still very bright, and the hand that 
lay upon the coverlet was smaller and more 
delicate than Dorothy's own. A high-born 
dame was Grandmother Gage. All her shel- 
tered, luxurious, early years had unfitted her 
for the trials that came later, and when, widowed 
and bereft of fortune, she followed her two sons 
to the new world, it was too late in life for her 
to take root in the rugged soil of a strange 

She bore the changes and hardships uncom- 
plainingly, but she had slowly drooped under 
them, and now while the snow lay white about 
the cabin she murmured of hawthorn blossoms, 

and thought she heard the bell in the old 
church tower. Occasionally she asked for her 
sons ; and it was this which had suggested 
to Reuben the plan he proposed, and over 
which his sister shook her head so doubtfully. 
Business had called their father to Provi- 
dence — no slight journey in those times, when 
every traveler must needs provide his own 
conveyance — and thence he expected to 
ride across country to his brother's, on the 
Chicopee River, and so reach home by a cir- 
cuitous route. 

" But he might come to-night," said Dorothy. 

" There were matters to discuss with our 
uncle, and he will be tired from his journey. 
He may delay for a day or more, and then — " 
Reuben paused. " The little grandmother will 
not be here," he was about to say, but looking 
in Dorothy's face he changed the sentence 
" Uncle Nathan will not come with him. My 
going will bring them both." 

" If it were not for the danger — " and Doro- 
thy hesitated. " The Indians have been trouble- 
some of late. You know the word neighbor 
Blakewell brought us but yesterday. On the 
traveled road I would fear less for you, but — " 

" But that is too far to travel on foot," in- 
terrupted Reuben, with the positiveness of his 
conviction that the time for action was short. 
" Striking directly acfoss to the Ridge and 
pond cuts off five miles or more, and once 
on the ice, I can make good speed." 

As he spoke, he threw over his shoulder a 
pair of skates, rude and primitive in construc- 
tion, but evidently valued as no common pos- 
session. The invalid turned uneasily on her 
pillow, and listened expectantly. 

"Do I hear them coming — Nathan, John? 
It is so long — almost dark." 

The wistful gaze, the tremulous eagerness 
of the words dying into incoherence, decided 
Reuben, and silenced his sister's objections. 

"If it must be — " said Dorothy. 



" Take heart, little sister. A true daughter 
of New England will not yield over much to 
fear," urged Reuben. " I should be at Uncle's 
by mid-afternoon, and we might be well on 
our way back while the daylight lasts." 

He was off as he spoke, and striding swiftly 
away down the snowy path that led from the 
door. But Dorothy, brave in any danger that 
she could share, felt less like a " true daughter 
of New England " than like a lonely, heart- 
sick girl as she watched Reuben out of sight, 
and peopled the distance beyond with enemies. 
Reuben, however, in the wisdom of his twenty 
years, thought neighbor Blakewell's warning 
the result of over-cautiousness — the natural 
forebodings of an old man who in earlier life 
had suffered much from Indian hostility. 

" But the journey must needs be taken," he 
said aloud with the freedom of one used to 

Solitary indeed his route was when he had 
left the road, and turned westward across the 
desolate country. The keen air stirred the 
blood of the young traveler, and quickened his 
pulse. After the weary night of watching and 
anxiety, it was a relief to have the power to 
act; and he pressed forward rapidly, though 
with eye and ear alert for every sight and 
sound. The region was but sparsely settled 
even along the highway, and in the course he 
had chosen all sign of human habitation was 
soon lost. His purpose was to cross the 
wooded hill known as the " Ridge " to a little 
lake or pond on the farther side, — Podunk 
Pond, — and therefrom flowed the Chicopee 
River, down which his skates would carry him 
swiftly and easily almost -to his uncle's door. 

For two or three hours he walked steadily 
on, meeting no obstacle, and making such pro- 
gress that he began to congratulate himself on 
completing this most toilsome part of his jour- 
ney even earlier than he had hoped. He had 
made the rough ascent of the Ridge, pausing 
for a moment on the highest point to look 
around him in every direction. For an instant 
he thought he saw a moving figure below him, 
but at the next glance it was gone; and, 
smiling at the thought of having been deceived 
by a shadow, he hastened his descent. The 
pond gleamed before him, a broad field of ice 

smooth and firm enough to delight the heart 
of any skater, and his eyes brightened with 
satisfaction at his course. 

" I wish Dorothy knew — " 

But the wish was cut short. An arrow sud- 
denly whizzed by his head, there was a fierce 
shout that made his heart stand still in terror, 
and the next moment he was surrounded by a 
band of savages who seemed to have sprung 
out of the earth. Flight was impossible, resis- 
tance worse than useless. He was seized, and 
his hands rudely tied behind him, though the 
significant flourish of a tomahawk over his 
head suggested that some of the party favored 
a more speedy method of disposing of him. 
All the peril of his situation, and the probable 
fate before him, rushed upon the young pris- 
oner with overwhelming terror, mingled with 
torturing thoughts of the home he had left, 
his inability to carry the message, and the an- 
guish his loss would cause. A vision of poor 
Dorothy watching in vain for his return, of his 
father bereft of the son who should have been 
the stay of his old age, almost maddened him. 

Meanwhile his captors were coolly appropri- 
ating his few effects. They knew the use of 
his musket, but his skates were examined doubt- 
fully, and passed about in evident perplexity. 
Their shape seemed to suggest foot-gear, and 
an old brave sat down and gravely attempted 
to adjust one of them to his foot. The effort 
was unsuccessful, and the curious scrutiny be- 
gan again. Then a young warrior with a par- 
ticularly hideous face mustered a few words of 
English, and questioned Reuben. 

" White-face moccasin ? " 

" Ice — ice moccasin." Reuben nodded. 

He repeated the words several times, trying 
to make them clearer by signs — not an easy 
task with his hands pinioned, and he was not 
sure that he was understood. But anything that 
drew their attention away from himself was at 
least a brief respite, and he occupied it in vainly 
trying to form some plan of escape. 

It was apparent that the Indians respected 
the white man's knowledge, and these un- 
known implements were once more inspected 
deliberately. Reuben's gaze, wandering a little 
from the group before him, fell suddenly upon 
another point of interest, and he discovered 




how it was 
that his foes 
had fallen 
upon him 
without any 

On the top 
of a hillock 
not far from 
the shore a 
had been 
made, show- 
ing that the 
band had 
planned for 
savage work 

in that region, and meant to 
have a safe place of retreat 
after their murderous sallies. 

" Oh, if I could but warn 
the settlers ! " the young pris- 
oner thought, groaning as he 
realized his helplessness. The 
next ' moment his own doom 
seemed imminent ; for the In- 
dian who had previously ques- 
tioned him approached a sec- 
ond time, and drawing a gleaming knife flashed it 

around his captive's 
head, and made 
a feint of 
it into 



— Kl: 


his heart. Reuben's lips paled, for he was 
young, and life was sweet ; but he was a true 


scion of the brave Pilgrim stock, and he knew 
his enemy too well to utter plea or outcry. 
After a few feints and lunges, however, the 
fiendish pastime ended in a descent of the 
gleaming blade upon the thongs that bound 
Reuben's wrists, and they were severed with 
one quick stroke. Astonished at this release, 
the boy was speedily enlightened as to its 
meaning by having his skates thrust into his hand 
with the command to "show Injun how walk." 
By many efforts at explanation, and by much 
pointing to the pond, it was at last understood 
that the strange shoes were for use on the ice, 
and the whole party, with Reuben carefully 
guarded in the middle, walked down to the 
brink of the little lake. There one Indian, who 
boasted that he " knew heap pale-face talk," 
insisted upon having the skates strapped upon 
his feet, and Reuben adjusted them. The brave 
surveyed them proudly, got upon his feet, es- 
sayed a first step, and then sat down again with 
a velocity and force that left him in no mood 



for further experiments. In his rage he would 
have dashed the skates to pieces and have 
brained their unfortunate owner, but his com- 
panions interfered. His downfall furnished di- 
version for them, and another young warrior, 
possessed by a desire to show how much bet- 
ter he could manage matters, tried the " ice- 
moccasins " himself. By great caution he suc- 
ceeded in getting fairly out upon the pond, 
but once there, at the first bold stride his feet 
flew from under him, and he slid away on his 
back for a few yards amid the derisive cheer- 
ing of his comrades. His experience had a 
wonderful effect in restoring the equanimity of 
the first skater, and Reuben, with a wild hope 
springing up in his brain, ventured to propose 
that he show how to use the appliances. 

The offer caused a moment's discussion. 
But if the older Indians offered objections, 
they were overborne by the younger ones, who 
were doubtless more curious and eager for 
sport, and the captive was escorted onto the 
ice, and allowed to put on his skates. Care- 
fully he fastened every strap and buckle, his 
heart in a tumult of hope and fear. Away to 
the west were friends and freedom — the pos- 
sibility of saving lives dearer than his own ; 
but nearer were his watchful enemies with a 
significant flourish of weapons, and he moved 
cautiously. He skated very slowly to and fro 
within the guarding circle, managing gradually 
to widen it a little as he turned. He feigned to 
slip once or twice and lose control of his 
treacherous " moccasins " until he had been 
carried farther than he intended; and these mis- 
haps were greeted with jeering delight. After a 
few minutes his slow progress and apparently 
uncertain footing made the Indians think that 
the white man's shoes were not of a kind that 
would enable him to run away, and they 
slightly relaxed their guard. Reuben had been 
watching for such a lapse, and with a sudden 
turn he struck out across the pond with all the 
speed that skill and desperation could give. 

The Indians were taken by surprise ; for one 
moment they stood stupefied, but the next a 
fierce shout arose, and they started in hot pur- 
suit. The young skater was well in advance, 
however, and increased the distance with every 
second of time. He seemed fairly to fly over 
Vol. XXI.— 40. 

the smooth ice, and though a shower of arrows 
fell around him, he was unhurt, and his pur- 
suers were soon left far behind. 

Not until utter weariness compelled him did 
he relax his speed, and he kept far away from 
the shore through the rest of his journey ; but 
he reached his uncle's house in safety, and 
found his father there. Messengers were sent 
in every direction to warn the settlers of dan- 
ger, and then Reuben, with his father and 
uncle, traveled on fleet horses homeward. The 



" little grandmother " was still living, and her 
dark eyes brightened with joy at the sight of 
her sons again. Then, as if in content, the 
tired lids drooped and she was away to the 
country where there is no more homesickness. 
Many a generation has vanished since then, 
but on the shores of the pond the old Indian 
fortification — grass-grown now, and looking 
like a great green bowl amid the surrounding 
country — is still known as Fort Hill; and to 
the children who dig up rude arrow-heads 
there is told the story of Reuben's escape. 

By Charles Washington Coleman. 

Some gentlemen from Holland, 

A doughty score and one, 
Upon my southern window-shelf 

Are sitting in the sun — 
A finer lot of gentlemen 

I never looked upon. 

There 's Mynheer Pottebakker, 
And there 's the Due van Thol, 

And Jagt van Delft and Lac van Rhyn, 
And Burgher Tournesol, 

With breeches wide as petticoats 
And round as any bowl. 

And there is many another 
Who bears an English name. 

Like those good Holland gentlemen 
Who with Dutch "William came, 

And while they posed as English lords 
Were Dutchmen all the same. 

These gentlemen from Holland, 
They have no word to say, 

But in a solemn silence sit 
In gorgeous fine array; 

Yet sure they are good company 
For that they look so gay. 


I never saw such breeches, 

E'en on our modern beaux; 
For each one of these gentlemen 

Doth wear his Sunday clothes 
Of crimson, yellow, white, and green, 

And violet, and rose. 

I think they know a secret, 

These visitors of mine, 
They found out where the rainbow rests 

Above the earth to shine, 
And quickly snipped a great piece off, 

To make their breeches fine. 


Some people call them tulips — 

Could these a secret hold ? 
They know where lies, these gentlemen, 

The rainbow's pot of gold, 
Which one might find and grow quite rich, 

If but these tulips told ! 

I might, had I the secret, 

Wear finer clothes myself; 
But when they come to visit me 

I have no thought of pelf, 
Before these gracious gentlemen 

Upon my window-shelf. 

And though they sit in silence, 

All in a gorgeous row, 
I 'm always glad to welcome them, 

And sorry when they go ; 
A much more goodly company 

I ne'er expect to know. 


By Brander Matthews. 

At the beginning of the last century, when 
Queen Anne sat on the throne of Great Britain, 
there were ten British colonies strung along the 
Atlantic coast of North America. These colo- 
nies were various in origin and ill-disposed one 
to another. They were young, feeble, and 
jealous; their total population was less than 
four hundred thousand. In the colony of Mas- 
sachusetts, and in the town of Boston, on Janu- 
ary 17, 1706, was born Benjamin Franklin, who 
died in the State of Pennsylvania and in the 
city of Philadelphia on April 17, 1790. In the 
eighty-four years of his long life, Benjamin 
Franklin saw the ten colonies increase to thir- 
teen ; he saw them come together for defense 
against the common enemy ; he saw them 
throw off their allegiance to the British crown ; 
he saw them form themselves into these United 
States; he saw the population increase to nearly 
four millions ; he saw the beginning of the 
movement across the Alleghanies which was 
to give us all the boundless West and all our 
possibilities of expansion. And in the bringing 
about of this growth, this union, this indepen- 
dence, this development, the share of Benjamin 
Franklin was greater than the share of any 
other man. 

With Washington, Franklin divided the honor 
of being the American who had most fame 
abroad and most veneration at home. He was 
the only man (so one of his biographers re- 
minds us) who signed the Declaration of Inde- 
pendence, the Treaty of Alliance with France, 
the Treaty of Peace with England, and the 
Constitution under which we still live. But 
not only had he helped to make the nation — 
he had done more than any one else to form 
the individual. If the typical American is 
shrewd, industrious, and thrifty, it is due in 
great measure to the counsel and to the exam- 
ple of Benjamin Franklin. In " Poor Richard's 
Almanac " he summed up wisely, and he set 

forth sharply, the rules of conduct on which 
Americans have trained themselves for now a 
century and a half. Upon his countrymen the 
influence of Franklin's preaching and of his 
practice was wide, deep, and abiding. He 
was the first great American, — for Washing- 
ton was twenty-six years younger. 

Benjamin was the youngest son of Josiah 
Franklin, who had come to America in 1682. 
His mother was a daughter of Peter Folger, 
one of the earliest colonists. His father was a 
soap-boiler and tallow-chandler ; and as a boy 
of ten Benjamin was employed in cutting wick 
for the candles, filling the dipping-molds, tend- 
ing shop, and going on errands. He did not 
like the trade, and wanted to be a sailor. So 
his father used to take him to walk about Bos- 
ton among the joiners, bricklayers, turners, and 
other mechanics, that the boy might discover 
his inclination for some trade on land. Frank- 
lin tells us that from a child he was fond of read- 
ing, and laid out on books all the little money 
that came into his hands. Among the books 
he read as a boy were the "Pilgrim's Progress" 
and " Essays to do Good " ; and this last gave 
him such a turn of thinking that it influenced 
his conduct through life and made him always 
" set a greater value on the character of a doer 
of good than on any other kind of reputation." 

It was this bookish inclination which deter- 
mined his father to make a printer of him, and 
at the age of twelve he was apprenticed to his 
brother James. There was then but one news- 
paper in America — the Boston News-Letter, 
issued once a week. A second journal, the 
Boston Gazette, was started in 17 19. At first 
James Franklin was its printer, but when it 
passed into other hands he began a paper of his 
own — the New England Courant, more lively 
than the earlier journals, and more enter- 
prising. As Benjamin set up the type for 
his brother's paper, it struck him that perhaps 




he could write as well as some of the contrib- 
utors. He was then a boy of sixteen, and al- 
ready had he been training himself as a writer. 
He had studied Locke " On the Human Un- 
derstanding," Xenophon's " Memorable Things 
of Socrates," and a volume of the "Spectator" 
of Addison and Steele. This last he chose as 
his model, mastering its methods, taking apart 
the essays to see how they were put together, 
and so finding out the secret of its simple style, 
its easy wit, its homely humor. His first efforts 
were put in at night under the door of the 
printing-house; they were approved and printed, 
and after a while he declared their authorship. 


For a mild joke on the government James 
Franklin was forbidden to publish the New 
England Cow-ant, so he canceled his brother's 
apprenticeship and made over the paper to 
Benjamin. But the indentures were secretly 
renewed, and the elder brother treated the 
younger with increasing harshness, giving him 

an aversion to arbitrary power which stuck to 
him through life. At length the boy could 
bear it no longer, and he left his brother's 
shop. James was able to prevent him from 
getting work elsewhere, so Benjamin slipped 
off on a sloop to New York. Failing of em- 
ployment here, he went on to Philadelphia, 
being then seventeen. He arrived there with 
only a " Dutch dollar " in his pocket. Weary 
and hungry, he asked at a baker's for a three- 
penny-worth of bread, and, to his surprise, he 
received three great puffy rolls. He walked 
off with a roll under each arm and eating the 
third ; and he passed the house of a Mr. Read, 
whose daughter stood at the door, 
thinking the young stranger made 
a most awkward, ridiculous ap- 
pearance, and little guessing that 
she was one day to be his wife. 
Franklin worked at his trade 
in Philadelphia for nearly two 
years. In 1724 he crossed the 
ocean for the first time to buy 
type and a press, but was dis- 
appointed of a letter of credit 
Governor Keith had promised 
him. He found employment as a 
printer in London, and he came 
near starting a swimming-school 
there; but in 1726, after two 
years' absence, he returned to 
Philadelphia, and there he made 
his home for the rest of his life. 
He soon set up for himself as a 
printer, and, as he was more 
skilful than his rivals and more 
industrious, he prospered, getting 
the government printing and buy- 
ing the Pennsylvania Gazette. He 
married Deborah Read ; and he 
made many friends, the closest of 
whom he formed into a club 
called the " Junto," devoted to 
inquiry and debate. At his suggestion the 
members of this club kept their books in com- 
mon at the club-room for a while; and out 
of this grew the first circulating library in 
America — the germ of the American public- 
library system. And in 1732 he issued the 
first number of " Poor Richard's Almanac," 




which continued to appear every year for a 
quarter of a century. 

It was "Poor Richard's Almanac" which 
first made Franklin famous, and it was out of 
the mouth of Poor Richard that Franklin spoke 


Poor Richard, \*j 3 3 ; 





7 3 I 

Being the. Fir ft after LEAP YEAR: 

j4nd makes fare the Creation Yejrs: 

ffBy'the Account of the E.ftern Greris 7241 1 

By the Latin Church, when Q ent.. f ■ 69^2' 

9y the Con.putarion of IV. W. y,\i 

By the Kgmc-n Chronology j<<8? 

By th6Je<wifi Rabbies 5494 

Wherein is contained ■ ■■ "• 
The. Lunations, Eclipfcs, Judgment. o£ 

the Weather, Spring Tides, Plane's Motion* &. 
mutual Afpefls, Sun and Moon's Riling 'and Set- 
ring, Length of Days, Time of High Water, 
Fairs, Courts", and obfervab!'-. D.iys. 
Fitted to the Larir.udc oi Forty Degrees, 
and a Meridian of Five Hours Weft f r0fr > I onion, 
but may without fenfible Error, feryeah the .id- 
-jacent Places, even from Newfoundland to South?. 
Caro lina. . ■ , 


Fruited and fold by B. FR.JNKl.IV> at the New 
Printing Office near the Market. 

The Third Imprefiioa. 


title-page of the only existing copy of the first number of 

"poor Richard's almanac," now in the possession of the 

pennsylvania historical society, philadelphia. 

most effectively to his fellow-countrymen. He 
had noticed that the almanac was often the 
only book in many houses, and he therefore 
"filled all the little spaces that occurred be- 
tween the remarkable days in the calendar with 

proverbial sentences, chiefly such as inculcated 
industry and frugality as the means of procuring 
wealth, and thereby securing virtue ; it being 
more difficult for a man in want to act always 
honestly, as, to use here one of those proverbs, 
'It is hard for an empty sack to stand 
upright. ' " By these pithy, pregnant say- 
ings, carrying their moral home, fit to 
be pondered in the long winter even- 
ings, Franklin taught Americans to be 
thrifty, to be forehanded, and to look 
for help only from themselves. The 
rest of the almanac was also inter- 
esting, especially the playful prefaces; 
for Franklin was the first of American 
humorists, and to this day he has not 
been surpassed in his own line. The 
best of the proverbs — not original, all 
of them, but all sent forth freshened 
and sharpened by Franklin's shrewd 
wit — he "assembled and formed into a 
connected discourse, prefixed to the al- 
manac of 1757, as the harangue of 
a wise old man to the people attend- 
ing an auction." Thus compacted, the 
scattered counsels sped up and down 
the Atlantic coast, being copied into all 
the newspapers. The wise " Speech of 
Father Abraham" also traveled across 
the ocean and was reprinted in England 
as a broadside to be stuck up in houses 
for daily guidance ; it was twice trans- 
lated into French — being probably the 
first essay by an American author which 
had a circulation outside the domains 
of our language. It has been issued 
since in German, Spanish, Italian, Rus- 
sian, Dutch, Portuguese, Gaelic, and 
Greek. Without question it is what 
it has been called — " the most famous 
piece of literature the Colonies pro- 

No man had ever preached a doctrine 
which more skilfully showed how to get 
the best for yourself; and no man ever 
showed himself more ready than Franklin to do 
things for others. He invented an open stove to 
give more heat with less wood, but he refused to 
take out a patent for it, glad of an opportu- 
nity to serve his neighbors ; and this invention 


i8g 4 .] 



N Q U I R Y 


Nature and Necejfify 


He soon mastered all that was known, and then 
he made new experiments with his wonted in- 
genuity. He was the first to declare the iden- 
tity of electricity with lightning. Using a wet 
string, he flew a kite against a thunder-cloud, 
and drew a spark from a key at the end of the 
cord. The lightning-rod was his invention. 
Of his investigations and experiments he wrote 
reports that were printed in England and trans- 
lated in France. The Royal Society voted him 
the Copley medal ; the French king had the 


. Quid afpr 

(ltd: Hummus habet; pjtria, cbarifq- propifiqitit 

U&jramiiiu elatgiri ticceat. - 

,, ._ -_. , , .Perl". 


Printed and Sold at the -New FRINTINC- 


of Franklin's was the beginning of the great 
American stove trade of to-day. He founded 
the first fire company in Philadelphia, and so 
made a beginning for the present fire depart- 
ments. He procured the reorganization of the 
night-watch and the payment of the watchmen, 
thus preparing for the regular police force now 
established. He started a Philosophical Society, 
and he took the lead in setting on foot an 
academy, which still survives as the University 
of Pennsylvania. While he was doing things 
for others, others did things for him, and he 
was made Clerk of the General Assembly in 
1736, and Postmaster of Philadelphia in 1737. 
In 1750 he was elected a member of the As- 
sembly, and in 1753 he was made Postmaster- 
General for all the Colonies. In 1748 he had 
retired from business, having so fitted his prac- 
tice to his preaching that he had gained a 
competency when only forty-two years old. 

The leisure thus acquired he used in the 
study of electrical science, then in its infancy. 


i 6 ', ; v-- 'f-~ And. • - • , 

§:. Hiftorical Chronicle, f 

For all the Britijh Plantations in Am&Ual 
[To be Continued. Monthly.] 

.- ."J A N U A R Y, 1 74.1. 







experiments repeated before him; and both Har- 
vard and Yale made Franklin a Master of Arts. 

But Franklin was not long allowed to live 
in philosophic retirement. When the French 
War broke out he was appointed one of the 
commissioners sent by Pennsylvania to a con- 
gress of the Colonies held at Albany. He 
wrote a pamphlet which aided the enlisting of 
troops ; and by pledging his own credit he 
helped General Braddock to get the wagons 
needed for the unfortunate expedition against 
Fort Duquesne. He drew up a Plan of Union 
on which the Colonies might act together, and 
thus anticipated the Continental Congress of 
twenty years later. In 1757, when Pennsyl- 
vania could no longer bear the interference of 
the governor appointed by the proprietors, 
Franklin was sent to London as the represen- 
tative of his fellow-citizens. It was more than 
thirty years since he had left England, a jour- 
neyman printer; and now he returned to it, a 
man of fifty, the foremost citizen of Philadel- 
phia, the author of " Father Abraham's Speech," 
and the discoverer of many new facts about 

He was gone nearly five years, successfully 
pleading the cause of Pennsylvania, and pub- 
lishing a pamphlet which helped to prevent the 
restoration of Canada to the French. Then he 
came home, to be met by an escort of five hun- 
dred horsemen, and to be honored by a vote 
of thanks from the Assembly. But the dispute 
with the proprietors of the colony blazing forth 
again, Franklin was sent back to London once 
more to oppose the Stamp Act. He returned to 
England in 1764, at first as agent of Pennsyl- 
vania only, but in time as the representative of 
New Jersey, Georgia, and Massachusetts also; 
and he remained for more than ten years, 
pleading the cause of the colonists against the 
king, and explaining to all who chose to listen 
the real state of feeling in America. He did 
what he could to get the first Stamp Act re- 
pealed. He gave a good account of himself 
when he was examined by a committee of the 
House of Commons. He wrote telling papers 
of all sorts: one a set of "Rules for Reducing 
a Great Empire to a Small One," and another 
purporting to advance the claim of the King 
of Prussia to lev)' taxes in Great Britain just 



as the King of England asserted the right to 
lay taxes on the Americans. He lingered in 
London, doing all he could to avert the war 
which he felt to be inevitable. At last, in 1775, 
less than a month before the battle of Lexing- 
ton, he sailed for home. 

On the day after he landed he was chosen a 
member of the Second Continental Congress. 
He acted as Postmaster-General. He signed the 
Declaration of Independence, making answer 
to Harrison's appeal for unanimity: "Yes, we 
must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all 
hang separately." Then there appeared to be 
a hope that France might be induced to help 
us; and in September, 1776, Franklin was 
elected envoy. Being then seventy years old, 
he went to Europe for the fourth time. In 
France he received such a welcome as no other 
American has ever met with. He was known 
as an author, as a philosopher, as a statesman. 
The king and the queen, the court and the 
people, all were his friends. His portraits 
were everywhere, and his sayings were repeated 
by everybody. In the magnificence of the pal- 
ace of Versailles, Franklin kept his dignified 
simplicity, and with his customary shrewdness 
he turned to the advantage of his country all 
the good-will shown to himself. After Bur- 
goyne's surrender the French agreed to an open 
alliance with the United States, and Franklin, 
with his fellow-commissioners, signed the treaty 
in 1778. 

During the war Franklin remained in France 
as American Minister, borrowing money, for- 
warding supplies, exchanging prisoners, and 
carrying on an immense business. As one of 
his biographers remarks, Franklin "stood in the 
relation of a navy department" to John Paul 
Jones when that hardy sailor was harassing the 
British coasts in the " Bonhomme Richard," — 
as his vessel was named, after "Poor Richard." 
He bore the brunt of the countless difficulties 
which beset the American representatives in 
Europe. At last Cornwallis surrendered; and, 
with Adams and Jay, Franklin signed the 
treaty of peace with Great Britain, in Sep- 
tember, 1783. The next year Jefferson came 
out, and in 1785 relieved Franklin, who was 
allowed to return to America, being then 
seventy-nine years of age. 



His "Autobiography," which he had begun 
in 1 77 1 in England, and had taken up again in 
France in 1783, he hoped to be able to finish 
now he was at home again and relieved from 
the responsibility of office. But he was at 
once elected a Councilor of Philadelphia, and 
although he would have liked the leisure he 
had hardly earned, he felt that he had no right 
to refuse this duty. Then was the "critical 
period of American history," and Franklin was 
kept busy writing to his friends in Europe en- 
couraging and hopeful accounts of our affairs. 
When the constitutional convention met, Frank- 
lin was made a member " that, in the possible 
absence of General Washington, there might be 
some one whom all could agree in calling to 
the chair." After the final draft of the Consti- 
tution was prepared, Franklin made a speech 
pleading for harmony, and urging that the doc- 
ument be sent before the people with the unan- 
imous approbation of the members of the 
convention. Then, while the last members 
were signing, he said that he had seen a sun 
painted on the back of the President's chair, 
and during the long debates when there seemed 
little hope of an agreement he had been in 
doubt whether it was taken at the moment of 
sunrise or sunset ; " but," he said, " now at 
length I have the happiness to know that it is 
a rising and not a setting sun." 

He was now a very old man. He said him- 
self: " I seem to have intruded myself into the 
company of posterity, when I ought to have 
been abed and asleep." His cheerfulness never 
failed him, and although he suffered much, he 
bore up bravely. " When I consider," he 
wrote in 1788, "how many more terrible mala- 
dies the human body is liable to, I think my- 
self well-off that I have only three incurable 
ones : the gout, the stone, and old age." He 
looked forward to death without fear, writing 
to a friend that, as he had seen " a good deal 
of this world," he felt "a growing curiosity to be 
acquainted with some other." For a year or 
more before his death he was forced to keep 
his bed. When at last the end was near and 
a pain seized him in the chest, it was suggested 
that he change his position and so breathe 
more easily. " A dying man can do nothing 
easily," he answered; and these were his last 
Vol. XXL— 41. 

words. He died April 17, 1790, respected 
abroad and beloved at home. 

In many ways Franklin was the most re- 
markable man who came to maturity while 
these United States were yet British colonies ; 
and nothing, perhaps, was more remarkable 
about him than the fact that he was never " co- 
lonial" in his attitude. He stood before kings 
with no uneasy self-consciousness or self-asser- 
tion ; and he faced a committee of the House 
of Commons with the calm strength of one 


thrice-armed in a just cause. He never bragged 
or blustered ; he never vaunted his country or 
himself. He was always firm and dignified, 
shrewd and good-humored. Humor, indeed, 
he had so abundantly that it was almost a 
failing ; like Abraham Lincoln, another typical 
American, he never shrank from a jest. Like 
Lincoln, he knew the world well and accepted 
it for what it was, and made the best of it, ex- 
pecting no more. But Franklin lacked the 
spirituality, the faith in the ideal, which was 
at the core of Lincoln's character. And here 
was Franklin's limitation : what lay outside of 
the bounds of common sense he did not see — 
probably he did not greatly care to see; but 
common sense he had in a most uncommon 

One of his chief characteristics was curi- 
osity — in the wholesome meaning of that 
abused word. He never rested till he knew 
the why and the wherefore of all that aroused 




'Q 1 Aft* ^ -J 

his attention. As the range of his interests was 
extraordinarily wide, the range of his informa- 
tion came to be very extended also. He was 
thorough, too; he had no tolerance for super- 
ficiality ; he went to the bottom of whatever 
he undertook to investigate. He had the true 
scientific spirit. He loved knowledge for its 
own sake, although he loved it best, no doubt, 
when it could be made immediately useful to 


his fellow-men. In science, in politics, in litera- 
ture, he was eminently practical ; in whatever 
department of human endeavor he was en- 
gaged, he brought the same qualities to bear. 
For the medal which was presented to Franklin 
in France the great statesman Turgot com- 
posed the line : 

Eripuit coelo fulmen sceptrumque tyrannis ; 


and it was true that the American faced the 
ministers of George III. with the same fearless 
eye that had gazed at the thunder-cloud. 

There is an admirable series in course of 
publication containing the lives of American 
men of letters, and there is an equally admir- 
able series containing the lives of American 
statesmen. In each of these collections there 
is a volume devoted to Benjamin Franklin ; 
and if there were also a series of American 
scientific men, the story of Franklin's life 
would need to be told anew for that also. No 
other American could make good his claim to 
be included even in two of these three collec- 
tions. As science advances, the work of the 
discoverers of the past, even though it be the 
foundation of a new departure, may sink more 
and more out of sight. As time goes on, and 
we prosper, the memory of our indebtedness to 
each of the statesmen who assured the stability 
of our institutions, may fade away. But the 
writer of a book which the people have taken 
to heart is safe in their remembrance; and, 
perhaps, to-day it is as the author of his "Auto- 
biography" that Franklin is best known. If 
he were alive probably nothing would sur- 
prise him more than that he should be ranked 
as a man of letters, for he was not an author 
by profession. He was not moved to com- 
position by desire of fortune or of fame; he 
wrote always to help a cause, to attain a pur- 
pose; and the cause having been won, the 
purpose having been achieved, he thought no 
more about what he had written. He had a 
perfect understanding of the people he meant 
to reach, and of the means whereby he could 
best reach them. 

Most of these writings were mere journal- 
ism, to be forgotten when its day's work was 
done ; but some of them had so much merit of 
their own that they have survived the tempo- 
rary debate which called them into being. Wit 
is a great antiseptic, and it has kept sweet the 
" Whistle," the " Petition of the Left Hand," the 
" Dialogue between Franklin and the Gout," 
and the lively little essay on the " Ephemera." 
Wisdom is not so common even now that 
men can afford to forget " Father Abraham's 

Speech," the " Necessary Hints to those that 
would be Rich," and " Digging for Hidden 
Treasure." Much of his fun is as fresh and as 
unforced now as it was a century and a half 
ago. Much of the counsel he gives so pleas- 
antly, so gently, so shrewdly is as needful now 
as it was when "Poor Richard" sent forth his 
first almanac. He taught his fellow-country- 
men to be masters of the frugal virtues. He 
taught them to attain to self-support that they 
might be capable of self-sacrifice. He taught 
them not to look to the government for help, 
but to stand ready always to help the govern- 
ment if need be. There are limits to his doc- 
trine, no doubt ; and there are things undreamt 
of in Franklin's philosophy . Yet, his philoso- 
phy was good so far as it went ; in its own 
field to this day there is no better. Common 
sense cannot comprehend all things ; but it led 
Franklin to try to help people to be happy in 
the belief that this was the best way to make 
them good. 

It was by watching and by thinking that 
Franklin arrived at his wisdom ; and it was not 
by chance that he was able to set forth his 
views so persuasively. Skill in letters is never 
a lucky accident. How rigorously he trained 
himself in composition he has told us in the 
"Autobiography" — how he pondered on his 
parts of speech and practised himself in all 
sorts of literary gymnastics. And of the suc- 
cess of this training there is no better proof 
than the " Autobiography " itself. It is a mar- 
velous volume, holding its own to-day beside 
" Robinson Crusoe," as one of the books 
which are a perpetual delight to all classes 
and in all climes, to young and to old, to the 
scholar familiar with Franklin's achievements, 
and to the boy just able to spell out its simple 
sentences. Its charm is perennial, and it is a 
revelation of the man himself, transparent and 
direct; and so it is that while we enjoy the 
book we learn to like the author who tells thus 
honestly the story of his life. It is one of the 
best books of its kind in any language ; and, as 
Longfellow declared, "autobiography is what 
biography ought to be." It abides as the chief 
monument of Benjamin Franklin's fame. 


By Amelia Burr. 

Our blue-eyed daughter with locks of gold, 

Rosy and dimpled and eight years old, 

Went to Sunday-school one fine day, 

When grass was -springing in balmy May. 

The questions swiftly went round the class, 

And soon came the turn of our little lass. 
' Your duty to neighbors ? " the teacher said ; 

Promptly replied our Golden-head, 
' I don't know that kind of duty, you see, 

But I know plain duty as well as can be." 

His hand on her curls the teacher laid ; 

Well, what is ' plain duty,' my little maid ? " 
1 Why, duty's the thing" — with a moment's thought — 
1 That you don't want to do, but you know you ought ! " 


By Tudor Jenks. 

We once had a family of giants for neigh- 
bors. Not museum giants, I mean real giants. 
I never asked just how big they were, but you 
can judge for yourself after I have told you 
about them. 

Perhaps I would n't have taken the house if 
I had known that the giants lived so near by, 
for I did n't know much about such people 
then ; but I did n't discover that their house 
was next ours until I had made the bargain 
with the agent. I had asked him all about 
everything I could think of — all about station- 
ary wash-tubs, malaria, mosquitos, the milk- 
man, the ice-man, the letter-man, and all the 
other kinds of men — but I never thought to ask 
about giants. No man, however prudent, can 
think of everything. But as I was shutting the 
front gate, after I had said I would take the 
house for a year, I saw a footprint in the road. 
The footprint that Robinson Crusoe saw sur- 
prised him, but even Crusoe did n't see such a 
footprint as this, for it was nearly as big as a boat. 

" What 's that ? " I asked the agent. 

" What ? Where ? " he asked, as uneasily as 
if I had discovered water in the cellar, or a 
leak in the roof. 

"That — there!" I answered, pointing to 
the footprint. 

" Oh, that/" he answered. "That must be 
the footprint of Mr. Megalopod." 

" It seems to cover considerable space," I 

" Yes," he admitted. Even an agent could n't 
deny that. " He 's a giant. Did n't I mention 
that you would have a giant for a neighbor ? I 
thought I spoke of it." 

"No," I said; "you didn't speak of it. You 
said that it was a pleasant neighborhood. Per- 
haps that is what you had in mind." 

" Possibly," he answered. " You have no 
objection to giants, have you ? " 

I paused a moment before I replied. It de- 
pended on the kind of giant. If it was one of 
the Blunderbore kind, even a foot-ball player 



might have been forgiven a slight preference 
for ordinary-sized neighbors. 

" Well," I said, at last, " I don't profess to be a 
' Hop-o'-my-Thumb,' or ' Jack the Giant-killer.' 
What sort of a giant is Mr. Megalopod ? " 

" The very best ! " the agent said. " We did 
think of asking more rent for this house, be- 
cause of the entertainment children would find 
in seeing a giant or two every day. But we 
decided we would n't charge for it, after all. 
Mr. Megalopod is a thorough gentleman — and 
so are the rest of the family. Mrs. Megalopod 
and the children are charming in every way. 
You will be glad to know them, I 'm sure. 
Good-day ! " 

The agent left me gazing at the footprint. 
He had other business in the town, and I had 
to take an early train for the city. 

I thought that my wife and children would 
be uneasy about the giants, but I was greatly 
mistaken. They were eager to see the family, 
and could hardly wait to be properly moved. 
My son and daughter began to put on airs over 
their playfellows, and to promise their best 
friends that they might have the first chance to 
come out and see the giant family. 

When we first moved, the Megalopods were 
absent from their house, and it was several 
days before they returned. They lived in the 
suburbs on purpose to avoid observation, and 
usually went about their journeys by night so 
as to attract as little attention as possible. 

The first time I saw Mr. Megalopod was on 
a Monday morning. I don't know why it is, 
but I am more likely to be late on Monday 
morning than on any other day of the week, 
' and I was late that morning. In fact, I should 
have missed my train for the city if it had not 
been for Mr. Megalopod. 

My way to the station passed near to his 
enormous house. I walked just as fast as I 
could, and if I had been a few years younger 
I would have run. Just as I came opposite to 
the giant's gateway I took out my watch ; I 
found I had just seven minutes in which to 
catch the train. Now, although the advertise- 
ment said our house was only three minutes' 
walk from the station, it did n't occur to me 
until afterward that the agent probably meant 
it was three minutes' walk for Mr. Megalopod. 

It certainly was a good ten minutes' scramble 
for me. So, as I looked at my watch, I said 
aloud : 

" Too late ! I have lost the train. I would n't 
have missed it for a hundred dollars ! " 

" Excuse me ! " I heard in a tremendous 
voice apparently coming from the clouds ; " if 
you will allow me, I will put you on the train!" 

Before I could- say a word, I was picked up 
and raised some thirty or forty feet into the air, 
and held safely and comfortably in the giant's 
great hand. Then Mr. Megalopod started for 
the station. 

" You are Mr. Megalopod, I presume," I 

" What ? " he said. " You see, I can't hear 
you. Here is a speaking-trumpet." 

So saying, he took a great fireman's-trumpet 
from his vest-pocket, and offered it to me with 
his other hand. I repeated my remark through 
the trumpet, at the top of my lungs. 

" Yes," he said. " You are our new neigh- 
bor, no doubt." 

"I am," I shouted; "and I 'm very glad 
to make your acquaintance." 

" You 're not afraid of me ? " he asked with 
a smile. 

" Not at all," I yelled back. 

" That 's pleasant," he said with much satis- 
faction. " The last people moved away be- 
cause they were afraid I might step on their 
children. It 's absurd, I never step on chil- 
dren. I would n't do such a thing ! " 

" Of course not ! " I shouted. 

" No. It would be an accident if I stepped 
on anything. You yourself might step on an 
ant or a beetle, you know. But I am very care- 
ful. Well, here you are at the station," and he 
put me gently on the platform. " I seldom go 
to the city, myself; and when I do I walk. 

" Good-by," I said ; " and I 'm much obliged 
to you for the little lift." 

" Don't mention it," he said. " I like to be 
neighborly. Any time you 're in a hurry, let 
me know." 

" Thank you," I replied. " I '11 do as much 
for you — in some other way. Good-by." 

" Pardon me," said Mr. Megalopod, "but — 
could you give me back the trumpet ? You 




won't need it in the city, unless you are a fire- 
man, of course." 

" It was mere absence of mind," I called 
through the trumpet ; and then I gave it back 
to him, and watched him take the two or three 
steps that brought him to the turn in the road. 

" A big fellow, is n't he ? " I said to the 
station agent. 

"Yes," he said; "he 's a fortune to the ex- 
press company. Every time he has a pair of 
boots sent home, it takes nearly a freight car." 

The arrival of the train ended our conver- 

I did n't see the Megalopods again for sev- 
eral days. My family did, and told me many 
interesting things about them. They seemed 
to be very pleasant neighbors. Their children 
met ours once or twice, while playing, and they 
became excellent friends. 

Before long they came to call upon us. We 
used to sit on the lawn — on chairs, of course — 
Saturday afternoon and during the summer 
evenings. They came one Saturday. We re- 
ceived them cordially, but hardly knew how 
to ask them to sit down. They talked pleas- 
antly about the neighborhood, and spoke espe- 
cially of the beautiful view. 

" You surprise me," I said. " It seems to me 
that we are too much shut in here by the trees." 

" I forgot," said Mrs. Megalopod, laughing. 
" We can see over the trees." 

" That is a great advantage," answered my 
wife, through Mrs. Megalopod's trumpet ; for 
both giants were thoughtful enough to carry 
these aids to conversation. 

" Oh, yes," replied the giantess ; " size has 
advantages. But, on the other hand, it brings 
inconveniences. You can hardly imagine. Now, 
take such a thing as next Monday's washing, 
for instance. I have to do all our washing. 
Even if we could afford to pay a laundress, she 
would n't be able to manage our clothes; not 
to speak of our table-cloths and other larger 
pieces. Then, for a clothes-line, nothing will 
serve us but a ship's cable. Then, too, every- 
thing we have must be made to order. It is 
hard to get along with so large a family. Some- 
times I 'm tempted to let John go into a 
museum ; but so far we have succeeded in 
keeping the museum manager from the door." 

" What is your business ? " I shouted to Mr. 

" Suspension bridges," he replied. " It pays 
well whenever I can get work; but they don't 
build bridges every day in the week — I wish 
they would ! " and he laughed till the windows 
rattled in the house near by. 

" Careful, John," said Mrs. Megalopod, 
warningly. Then turning to my wife she re- 
marked, "John forgets sometimes that his 
laughing is dangerous. He was in an office 
building one day — in the great lower story, 
one of the few buildings that has a door large 
enough to let him in. Some one told a funny 
story, and he began to laugh. It cost him 
several hundred dollars to repair the windows. 
So I have to remind him to be cautious when 
he hears a really good joke." 

Here my son Harry asked me to lend him 
the trumpet for a minute. 

" Mr. Megalopod," he called, " would you 
mind doing me a great favor ? " 

" Not at all — if it is large enough," Mr. Me- 
galopod replied very politely. 

"Then will you get my ball for me? It 
went up on the roof the other day, and it is in 
the gutter now." 

" Quick ! give me the trumpet," I said to 
Harry, as Mr. Megalopod rose. Then I 
shouted, " I beg you won't put yourself out for 
such a trifle — ! " but he was out of hearing be- 
fore I had finished. 

He soon returned with the ball, and gave it 
to Harry. 

" Lend me the trumpet, Papa," said Harry. 
" I 'm much obliged to you," he shouted. 

" Don't mention it," said the giant, seating 
himself. I forgot to mention that while we 
were deciding what to give them to sit upon — 
we had thought of their sitting upon the top of 
the piazza, but were afraid it would break down 
with them — Mr. Megalopod had opened out a 
sort of a walking-stick he carried, and made it 
into a very comfortable stool, while his wife had 
a similar portable chair. They were always 
thoughtful and considerate, as, indeed, I might 
have known from their speaking-trumpets. Do 
you suppose, if you were a giant, you would re- 
member to carry a speaking-trumpet for the use 
of other people? It is such little traits as these 




that endear giants to their friends. It is not you cared to keep up our acquaintance. If 

you did n't, I preferred not to force myself 
upon you." 

" Why, you must be laboring under a mis- 
take," I called back. " What have we done 
to offend you ? " I was anxious to know, for 
I did n't like to think of there being any un- 

hard to carry a speaking-trumpet in your vest- 
pocket, but it is the remembering to do so that 
shows the big-hearted giant. 

Soon after they had made their call upon us, 
my wife told me one morning, while I was shav- 
ing, that we ought to return the call soon. 

" Of course," I said, stropping my razor pleasantness between ourselves and the giants, 

slowly and thoughtfully. " Of course. I mean " I usually overlook trifles," said Mr. Mega- 

to go very soon. Very soon. I had meant to lopod ; " but when you did n't return our call, 

go several days ago." I thought you meant that you did n't care to 

" Yes. I know," said my wife. " But when continue the acquaintance ! " 

shall we go ? To-morrow ? " " My dear sir," I said hastily, " my wife left 

" Well," I said, between strokes of the razor, cards." 

did she ? " said the giant, pleasantly. 
I suppose Mrs. Megalopod did n't 

"you see to-morrow — is — Saturday. And "Oh, 
as — it is — ," here I stopped the razor, "the "Then 
only holiday I have during the week, I hardly 
like to give it up to make a call." 

" Yes, dear," she replied, " but it is the only 
time we have when we can go together." 

" Well, married men are not required to make 
calls," I said. 

" I suppose I can leave our cards," she said. 

" Yes," I answered, eagerly, " that will do 
perfectly well." 

My wife did not seem pleased, but she said 
no more then, and I finished my shaving. I 
did n't cut myself again. 

So she left our cards. 

The next time I met Mr. Megalopod was 
about two weeks later. He did not return my 
bow, and apparently did not see me. I went 
and pulled his shoe-string, to attract his atten- 
tion. He was pruning the top of a great chest- 
nut-tree that stood in his front yard. 

He handed me the trumpet, but did not 
show in any other way that . 
he had noticed my presence. 

" Mr. Megalopod," I said, 
" is there any trouble at your 
house ? " 

" Oh, no," he answered, 

" You did n't return my 
bow," I said, in what I meant 
to be a tone of reproach ; but 
it is very hard to put reproachful inflections notice them. They were put into the card- 
into your voice when you are trying to shout tray, no doubt, and she must have failed to 
loud enough to impress a giant. see them." 

" No," he said slowly ; " I did n't know that " No doubt that 's it," I said. " They were 




only the usual size. I hope you will believe 
that it was only an accident." 

" Certainly," he said ; " I had forgotten that 
you are not used to our ways. Our friends 
usually have cards written for them by sign- 
painters on sheets of bristol-board. We are so 
apt to lose the little cards." 

" I see," I replied. 

Shortly afterward my wife and I went to call 
on the Megalapods. I cannot pretend to de- 
scribe all the curious things in their house. 
When we rang the bell, — the lower bell, for 
there was one for ordinary-sized people, — we 
nearly fell down the steps. There came the 
peal of an enormous gong as big as those you 
find in great terminal railroad stations. When 
the door opened, it seemed as if the side of a 
house had suddenly given way. The pattern 
on the hall carpet showed roses four or five 
feet wide, and the hat-stand was so high that 
we never saw it at all. We walked under a 
hall-chair, and thought its legs were pillars. 

Just as we entered the reception-room we 
heard a terrible shout : " Oh, look out ! " and a 
great worsted ball, some four feet in diameter, 
almost rolled over us. The Megalopod baby 
had thrown it to one of his brothers. It was a 
narrow escape. The brother picked up the 
baby to carry him away. 

"Oh, don't take the sweet little thing — " 
my wife began ; but she stopped there, for " the 
sweet little thing " was as large as two or three 
ordinary men. 

" Excuse me, ma'am," said the boy, " but we 
can't trust baby with visitors. He puts every- 
thing into his mouth, and — " 

My wife cheerfully consented that the Mega- 
lopod baby should be taken to the nursery 
during our call. 

Mrs. Megalopod offered us two tiny chairs. 
They were evidently part of the children's play- 
things. " If you would rather sit in one of our 
chairs," she suggested, " I shall be glad to assist 
you to one, but I would rather not. To tell 
the truth," she added, with some confusion, 
" one of our visitors once fell from a foot- 
stool, and broke his leg. Since then I have 
preferred they should take these." 

We took the small chairs. As it was dusk, 
Mrs. Megalopod struck a match to light the 


gas. It was a giant's parlor-match, and the 
noise and burst of flame was like an explosion. 
My wife clutched my arm in terror for a mo- 
ment, while Mrs. Megalopod begged our par- 
don and blamed herself for her thoughtlessness. 

We had a very pleasant call, and the good 
relations between the families were entirely 
restored. In fact, as we were leaving, Mrs. 
Megalopod promised to send my wife a cake 
made by herself. It came later, and was 
brought by the Megalopod boy. By cutting it 
into quarters, we got it through the front door 
without breaking off more than five or six lumps 
of a pound or two each. As it was a plum- 
cake, it kept well. I think there is nearly a 
barrelful of it left yet; but we reserve it for 
visitors, as we got tired of plum-cake after a 
year or so. 

The Megalopods were always kind neigh- 
bors. Once they did us a great service. 

There was a farmer who lived in the valley 
near us, and he owned a very cross bull. One 
day the bull broke his chain, and came charg- 
ing up the road just as my little boy was on his 
way to school. I don't know what would have 
been the result if the Megalopod baby (then 
a well-grown child of about twenty-five feet) 
had not come toddling down the road. The 
bull was pursuing my boy, who was running for 
his life. The baby giant had on red stock- 
ings, and these attracted the bull's attention. 
He charged on the baby, and tried to toss his 
shoes. This amused the child considerably, 
and he laughed at the bull's antics as an 
ordinary baby might laugh at the snarling and 
bitings of a toothless puppy. 

" I take 00 home," he said, and picking up 
the angry bull, he toddled off down the road. 

My boy came home much frightened, but 
almost as much amused. I learned afterward 
that Mr. Megalopod carried the bull back to the 
farmer and gave the man a severe talking to. 

But we felt grateful, and so we decided to 
ask Mr. and Mrs. Megalopod to dinner. It 
meant a great deal, as you will see; but as 
we had just come into a large legacy from an 
estate that had been in litigation for many 
years, we took pleasure in showing our grati- 
tude and our good-will toward the family. 
First we had a large and elegant teething-ring 



made to order for the baby. It was a foot 
through and several feet in diameter. The 
baby enjoyed it very much, and was somewhat 
consoled for the loss of the bull, which he had 
wished to keep as a pet. 

I hired the sign-painter in a village not far 
away to write out the invitation for us upon the 
largest sheet of cardboard I could get in the 
city. It was ten feet by fifteen in size, and 
when inscribed looked truly hospitable. It read 
as usual — requesting the presence of Mr. and 
Mrs. Megalopod at dinner on the 20th. We 
had to send it by express. The expressman 
wanted us to roll it ; but I did n't think it 
would be just the thing. So it was sent flat in 
an envelop made specially for it. They sent 
an acceptance nearly as large, and were kind 
enough to send later an informal note saying 
that they would bring their own plates, knives, 
and forks, and so on. 

one of them explained to me that after all it 
made no great difference. " For," said he, " if 
they had stayed at home, they would have 
ordered the same things nearly, anyway." But 
it was different with the confectioner. I ordered 
forty gallons of ice-cream, two thousand maca- 
roons, and eighty pounds of the best mixed 

" It 's for a large picnic ? " he suggested. 

" The largest kind," I replied, for we were of 
course to dine in the open air. In order to 
provide against rain, I hired a second-hand 



" How thoughtful of them ! " said my wife, 
who had been somewhat puzzled about how to 
set the table. 

I had told the butcher and other tradesmen 

about the dinner, and they were to furnish 

ample provision. I had expected that they 

would be delighted to get the large orders ; but 

Vol. XXI. — 42. 

circus-tent, and had it set up in our front yard, 
where the table had already been constructed 
by a force of carpenters. 

By stooping as they came in, and seating 
themselves near the center, our guests were not 
uncomfortable in the tent. 

My wife and I had a smaller table and 





chairs set upon the large table, and though we 
did not feel altogether comfortable sitting with 
our feet on the table-cloth, we did not quite see 
how to avoid it. 

The first course was much enjoyed, except 
that Mr. Megalopod was so unlucky as to 
upset his soup (served in a silver-plated metal 
plate), and run the risk of drowning us. Mrs. 
Megalopod, however, was adroit enough to 
catch us up before the inundation overwhelmed 
us. The giant apologized profusely, and we 
insisted that it was of no consequence. 

When we came to the turkeys (which Mrs. 
Megalopod said were dainty little birds), I was 
afraid Mr. Megalopod was not hungry, for he 
could not finish the two dozen ; but he ex- 
plained that he seldom ate birds, as he pre- 
ferred oxen. In the next course I found that 
Mr. Megalopod was looking for the salt. I 
handed him the salt-cellar, but it was too small 
for him to hold. 

"Have you any rock-salt?" he asked with 
frankness. " I can never taste the fine salt." 

Luckily we had bought a large quantity of 

i8 94 ] 



the coarsest salt for making ice-cream, and I 
had several boxes brought, and sent up from 
the ground on an elevator. 

The waiter, frightened half out of his wits, 
set the boxes as close to the giant as he dared 
and tried hard not to run when moving away. 

Strangely enough, the only thing that ran 
short was the water. It would n't run fast 

about eight feet high) full of spring water. So 
that little difficulty was pleasantly arranged. 

After the dinner was over, the giants went 
home, saying that they had never passed a 
pleasanter afternoon. 

We were equally pleased, and my wife said 
that the most agreeable neighbors we had ever 
known were certainly Mr. and Mrs. Megalopod. 

1 i 'Mi 

f 4s'*:* 


enough to give the giant a full drink of water. " There is nothing small about them," I said, 

He was very polite about it, but the rock-salt warmly, " and they certainly take wide views 

had made him thirsty. At last I sent down to of everything." 

the Megalopods' house, and hired the giant's "Yes," she agreed, "even with our simple little 

boy to bring a pail (one of their pails — it was dinner they seemed immensely delighted." 


By W. T. Hornaday. 


Whoever acquires a fair general knowledge 
of the quadrupeds of the entire North Ameri- 
can continent, from Lady Franklin Bay to the 
Isthmus of Panama, will assuredly have a good 
grasp on mammals in general of the whole 
western hemisphere. While South America 
has very many species all her own, a great 
many of her most noteworthy forms stray north 
of the isthmus, and will be caught in the net 
we are now setting. To accomplish this good 
purpose, we will consider Central America as 
being a part of North America. 

from a moment's examination of its teeth and 

If this were intended as a scientific treatise, 
I would have to place the lowest forms of 
mammals at the head of the list, and work 
dowmvard to the highest! But these papers 
propose to take up the most interesting of all 
God's creatures first. Therefore we will begin 
with the highest orders of the mammalia, and 
when you become a scientific student you can 
easily reverse the order, and begin with the 
microscopic forms of life, if you choose. 






Meaning in plai?i English. 



Carnivora . . . 
insectivora. . 
Chiroptera ... 
rodentia .... 



Edentata .... 
Marsupialia . 


.Apes, baboons, and monkeys. 
.Cats, dogs, bears, weasels, seals, sea-lions. 

Moles and shrews. 
. Bats and flying-foxes. 
. Hares, gophers, rats, squirrels. 
.Cattle, deer, hogs, sheep, tapirs, elephants. 
. Whales, porpoises, dolphins. 

Manatee and dugong. 
.Armadillos, sloths, and ant-eaters. 

Opossums and kangaroos. 

Platypus and spiny ant-eaters. 

. (Quad'ru-man-a) 
. (Car-niv'o-rah) . . . 


. (Ung-gu-la'ta) . . . 

. (Se-ta'se-a) 

. (Si-re'-nea) 


. (Mar-su-pi-a'li-a) 
. (Mon-o-trem'a-ta) 

. . Four-handed ; not erect . 

. . Flesh-eaters 

. . Insect-eaters 

. . Wing-handed 

. . Gnawers 

. . Hoofed (chiefly) 

. Whale-like 

. Toothless (partly) 

. . Pouched 

■ Egg-laying 

* Strict scientific accuracy might properly demand of us that man and the 
Primates, of which the sub-order Bimana includes man, and the sub-order C, 
To simplify the subject for the benefit of young readers, we will here follow 
mana as Orders. 

monkeys be grouped together in one order, called 
uadrumana would embrace the four-handed fellows, 
the classification which ranks Bimana and Quadru- 

Before we set forth on our first hunt, how- Any zoological Order is subject to division 

ever, we must note a few indispensable facts. and subdivision into groups growing smaller 

We have already learned the position of and smaller until at last we reach a particular 

the Class Mammalia in the scale of classifica- species, and even a single individual with a 

tion of the animal kingdom, and now we must special history. It is necessary to know just 

subdivide our class into its various smaller what these subdivisions are, and the rank of 

groups. I shall not trouble you much with each. 

classification, but it is really necessary that the the subdivisions of an order. 

following should be known and remembered : Illustration : The Coyote, or Prairie Wolf. 

The Class Mammalia, or Mammals, is divided 0rder Carnivora (the flesh-eaters). 

into eleven trreit pronns nlled Orders- inrl Sub-order. .Fissipedia (terrestrial flesh-eaters), 

into eleven great groups, called Ureters — and Family Canim: (the dogs). 

here let me urge young readers ot these papers Sub-family. .None for this example. 

to memorize the names of these various orders, Genus Cams (dog). 

and to clearly understand the meaning of each Species latrans (barking). 

. , T . ,, ,, . , , . Sub-species .None for this example, 

title. It is worth something to be able to name w™.,. ■„ r u r ■ ? , c n . B • ■ ,„ „ 

s JNames in lull : Cams latrans, Say- Coyote, Prairie Wolf 

the order to which a strange mammal belongs, or Barking Wolf. 




It is the habit of scientific writers who are 
writing for the benefit of one another, to add to 
the Latin name of an animal either the name or 
an abbreviation of the name of the person who 
first described and correctly named the animal 
in a printed book. In scientific writings this is 
necessary, because it often happens that several 
authors apply several names to a single animal. 
So in the Coyote example the scientific student 
will note the fact that the animal was first 

described and correctly classified and named 
by a Philadelphia naturalist named Thomas 
Say, and a reference to one of his books will 
show that the description appears in " Long's 
Expedition to the Rocky Mountains," published 
in 1823, volume I, page 168. 

When the name of a species begins with a 
capital letter, it is a quickly read sign that the 
species has been named after some person or 


y 1 ■ t 




E are off to the Central American tropics, on 
a grand monkey-hunt. We don our very light- 
est summer clothing and our Panama hats, and 
besides our firearms, each hunter will need a 
good stout machete (bush-knife) with a keen 
edge, to cut his way through the leafy tangle 
of monkey-land. The home of the American monkey is one 
vast and all-pervading forest, which spreads its dense green man- 
tle over sea-shore, plain, valley, and mountain. Here and there 
a narrow rent is left, grudgingly enough, by which the rivers may 
see a bit of sky; but to smaller streams even that poor privilege is 
denied by the overhanging and interlacing branches. 

Our hunting-ground for North American monkeys begins in 

" the land of manana " (to-morrow), in the Mexican State of San 

Luis Potosi, about latitude 23 north. It extends southeastward through 

the tierra caliente, or hot lands, of Vera Cruz to Oaxaca, and thence on 




through the whole of 
Central America to 
the Isthmus of Pan- 
ama. Throughout this 
vast region mountain- 
ranges and volcanos 
are plentiful, and some 
of our monkeys will 
be found at elevations 
as high as eight thou- 
sand feet above the sea. 
Many times must our 

game be 
that even 

tion, and catch 
in our hands the 
fruit-pods they drop 
down, the leafy tan- 
gle of vines and 
branches will be so 
thick we shall be 
quite unable to see, 
or get a shot at, the 
dwellers in the tree- 
tops. I have spent 
hours in the dense, 
dark forests which 
are the home of 
the spider-monkey, 
peering upward in 
vain attempts to get 
sight of the monkeys 
that far above me 
were holding high 

Now, a monkey is 
a small creature, and, 
for a professional 
sportsman, is ignomi- 
nious game; but he 
the mantled howlee. (see pace 337 .) who hunts monkeys 

sought in forests so dense and lofty successfully in the tangled lowland forests, or 
though we can hear their conversa- on the forest-clad mountains so common in 

i8 9 4-] 



Central America, is a hunter worthy of the 
name. It calls for good eyes, good legs, good 
lungs, and good shooting. For monkey-hunt- 
ing in high forests, a small rifle is absolutely 
essential ; but in moderately low jungle, a shot- 
gun loaded with coarse shot is best. And now 
for a plunge into the jungle. We will hunt our 
North American monkeys in the order in which 
they should be classified — from the highest 
to the lowest. First, however, please note 
the following facts : 

No apes, baboons, 
nor tailless monkeys 
are found in the New 

No monkeys with 
prehensile tails are 
found in the Old 
World ; and whenever 
an African or East In- 
dian traveler tells you 
how he saw monkeys 
hang by their tails, tell 
him he 's another ! 

Not all American 
monkeys have prehen- 
sile tails, but this char- 
acter is possessed by 
about one fourth of 

Most American 
monkeys can be dis- 
tinguished from Old 
World species by the 
wide space, or septum, 
between the nostrils. 

The Howling 

A few days after 
I first set foot in the 
land of the golden 
howler, there mingled 
in the dreams I was 
dreaming about four 

long-drawn and lazy in length, unearthly in 
depth, but not wholly unmusical ; rising and 
falling in great waves of sound, rolling far and 
wide through the forest and across the great 
river in slowly measured cadence. Written 
musically (!) it would be this : 





Oo - OO-WOW - 00 - 00 - OO - WOW - 00 - 00-00 - wow ! 

geoffroy's spider-monkeys, (see page 338.) 

o'clock one morning, in the bottom of a dug- 
out canoe, a sound from the depths of the forest 
such as I had never before heard issue from throat 
of beast or man. It was a resounding, deep 
bass, a cross between a guttural roar and a song, 

It was a won't-go-home-till-moming concert, 
a regular song, in fact, of several voices, mostly 
basso profundo, and pitched away down in the 
cellar at that. The singers were clearly two 
miles distant from us, and I fully believe the 




tree, and, being out 
expressly for speci- 
mens, we opened fire 
and killed five of 
them. Two fell, but 
the three others 
wrapped their tails 
tightly around the 
branches, died, and 
still held on. And 
there they continued 
to hang by the in- 
voluntary tension of 
those tails until my 
friend Jackson pluck- 
ily climbed up sixty 
tiresome feet and 
kicked them loose, 
and sent them crash- 

the capichin monkey, 
(see page 338.) 

sound could have been heard 
at least a mile farther away. 

How such a depth of sound 
could come from throat of mon- 
key was a puzzle to me until 
that evening I dissected one 
of the singers, and found be- 
tween his extremely deep lower 
jaws, connecting with his larynx, 
a queer-shaped bony box nearly 
as large as a hen's egg. It was 
really an expansion of a portion 
of the hyoid bone, and formed 
a perfect sound-box for the 
howler. So far as I know he 
enjoys the distinction of being 
the sole owner of this wonder- 
ful patent. 

On that never-to-be-forgotten 
day, we learned something else 
in the school of observation. In 
fact, I may say that we expe- 
rienced the prehensile tail of the 
howling monkey. As we pad- 
dled along the shore in the early 
morning, we came upon a troop 
of thirteen howlers, sitting 
about in the open top of a big 


i8 94 ; 



ing down. This was the golden howler of South 
America, a big, ugly, black-faced, red-haired 
fellow, weighing from twenty to thirty pounds, 
and is the most typical form of the howlers. 

the mantled ( s0 called because the hair 
howler on his flanks is so long it 

iMy-cetes fai-ii-a- tus)* forms a sort of mantle), is 
either brown-black or quite black in color, 
though in different specimens there is much 
variation in the intensity of the black or brown- 
ish-black ground color, and the prevalence of 
the brown tint on the back and hips. This 
species is not found in Mexico, and is first 
met with in eastern Honduras. It is found in 
Nicaragua, on the shores and islands of Lake 
Nicaragua. Thence its range extends south- 
ward through Costa Rica, Veragua, and the 
Isthmus of Panama, below which it is replaced 
by the golden howler of the Orinoco region. 

the shaggy which, so far as known at pres- 
howler ent, is found only in eastern 

Wy-cstcs viuiosus) Guatemala, on the Atlantic 
side of the great watershed, is perfectly black, 
and his hair is so long and soft that the term 
villosus, meaning shaggy or woolly, has been 
applied to him by his discoverer as his " given 
name." In its native country this species lives 
around the Gulf of Dulce, along the rivers that 
flow into it, and northward into the State of 
La Paz, where it is most numerous in the dense, 
dark, and gloomy forests on the mountains of 
Chilasco, from 3000 to 6000 feet above the sea. 
The natives call it " mono," which is the Span- 
ish word for monkey. 

The howling monkeys of all species have 
about the same habits. In disposition and in- 
telligence they are rather dull and sluggish, and 
as pets they are not a success. They live in 
troops of from five to fifteen, generally in the 
tops of the tallest trees, or else in the most tan- 
gled and impenetrable portions of the lower 
forests. Several that I shot from my canoe on 
the Cano del Toro fell in places so choked with 
leafy vines and creepers that it was utterly im- 
possible to find them. In the early morning, 

especially after a rainy night, it is a common 
sight for a river voyager to see a band of howl- 
ers sitting placidly in the top of a tree, taking 
the sun. At such times they are easily ap- 
proached, provided the jungle under-growth be 
not wholly impenetrable. 

The flesh of the howler is eaten by the 
Indians of Central and South America, but on 
account of the strong and disagreeable body 
odor of the animal, I never cared to taste it, 
even when half starved. 

The Spider-Monkeys. 

Right well named are the short-bodied, black- 
skinned, and mostly black-haired sprawlers of 
the tree-tops, with their tremendously long and 
slender legs, hands, and tails. The tail is very 
strongly prehensile, and far more useful to its 
owner than a fifth leg would be. The spider- 
monkeys have been very unfortunate, for Dame 
Nature has given them no thumbs ! Two spe- 
cies have pluckily tried to grow thumbs for 
themselves, but only the merest little thumblet 
has appeared to reward their efforts. 

All things considered, they are the liveliest, 
brightest, and most interesting in their home 
life of all the monkeys of the New World. In 
captivity, whenever a number of monkeys of 
different species are kept in one large cage, in 
nearly every instance it will be noticed that the 
most active swingers and climbers are the 

Four species of spider-monkeys are found in 
North America. 
the Mexican is trle oni y monkey found as 
spider-monkey far north as Mexico. Its 
(Ate-ies veiic-msus) home extends from the State 
of San Luis Potosi, lat. 23 north, southeast- 
ward through Vera Cruz, Oaxaca, and Chiapa, 
into Guatemala, where it is found in great num- 
bers on the sides of the volcano of Atitlan, as 
high as seven thousand feet. The color of this 
species is uniform black, varying to reddish- 
brown on the back, with gray under parts. 

* Naturalists who first describe and name a new ani- common names upon animals, but the Latin names only 

mal always bestow upon it a Latin name for its genus, are universal. In papers such as these the scientific 

and another for its species, because Latin names are the names must be given in order that the student of zoology 

only ones which pass current unchanged among the may know exactly which species we are describing and 

scientists of all nations. Every language bestows its own figuring. 

Vol. XXI. — 43. 




geoffroy's varies in color from deep red- 
spider-monkey -dish-brown to light gray, or 
(Afc-ks Ccof/roy-i) dirty white. It is found from 
southern Nicaragua through Costa Rica, Vera- 
gua, and Panama to South America. The Nic- 
aragua Canal will be, when finished, very nearly 
the northern boundary of this species, which is 
most abundant in Costa Rica. 
the black-faced is black all over, body as 
spider-monkey well as face, and, like his 
(At'e-Us a-ter) friend the red-bellied spi- 
der-monkey,* who is also black all over ex- 
cepting his red under parts, is not found north 
of Panama. Their proper home is in South 
America, from Peru northward. 

The habits of the spider-monkeys are very 
interesting. The baby spider-monkey, like the 
infant howler, clings fast to its mother's body 
until old enough to travel alone, and keep up 
with the band on its marches through the tree- 
tops. The spider-monkeys are very much given 
to hanging by the tail and fore legs, with the 
hind legs swinging freely and most comically 
in the air. If it is true, as has often been stated 
in print, that spider-monkeys have been known 
to cross small tropical rivers by constructing 
a living suspension-bridge of themselves, then 
that is one of the most wonderful feats of 
intelligence ever displayed by wild monkeys. 
But I think the statement needs confirmation. 

The howlers and the spider-monkeys live on 
fruits and leaves almost exclusively, and in the 
fruit season are plump-bodied, and even fat. 

neither too small nor too large, fair in propor- 
tions, active, intelligent, and docile, and decid- 
edly affectionate. Many Old World monkeys 
are treacherous and dangerous brutes ; but so 
far as his human friends are concerned, the 
Capuchin is nearly always to be trusted. He 
has a countenance like a pale, sad-looking old 
man heavily burdened with care. 

Out of a large cageful of monkeys of various 
kinds that I once kept, the White-throated Sapa- 
jou was the only thoroughly satisfactory inmate. 
He was sincerely attached to me, and whenever 
I came near him would purse out his wrinkled 
lips and complain to me about his disagreeable 
neighbors at a great rate. When frightened, 
his shrill, rasping shrieks, and the expression of 
his mobile face, made a representation of terror 
so perfect that a tragic actor might well have 
copied it. When coaxing his keeper for food 
or attention, he would thrust out his lips until 
they formed a funny-looking little tube, and 
say in a plaintive tone, " Poo-oo-oo-oo ! " 

These graceful and interesting monkeys are 
found in eastern Honduras, Nicaragua, Costa 
Rica, Panama, and northern South America. 
At home they are not nearly so active and 
bold as the spider-monkey, doubtless because 
they are not all legs and tail, like the spiders. 
They not only eat fruit of all kinds, but are also 
very fond of beetles and other insects, eggs, 
and even young birds. The tail is prehensile, 
but not powerfully so like that of the spider- 

The White-throated Capuchin, or Sa- 
PAjout (a monkey named after a monk!), and 
his near relatives, are some of the poor lit- 
tle fellows who find the monkeys' purgatory 
on this earth. They are les miserables who 
go about with the organ-grinder, dance when 
the chain is jerked, and pass the tiny hat 
for the pennies. Poor little beggars ! How- 
much better for a monkey is the hunter's bul- 
let in the leafy jungle than the deadly hand- 
organ on the hot pavement, and lifelong 
misery ! 

As a household pet, or a captive in a zoo, 
the Capuchin monkey is the prince of good 
fellows. He is of good, comfortable size, 

Of the Owl-Monkeys, or Douroucoulis, 
there are two species in Central America, one 
of which, the red-footed variety, J is found in 
Nicaragua, and the other § has thus far been 
found only in Costa Rica. They are very 
much alike, both very rare, and rather uninter- 
esting because of their purely nocturnal habits. 
They are about as large as a gray squirrel, 
and the species called vociferans is covered with 
a thick coat of long, silky hair of a grizzled 
brown-and-white color. The eyes are very 
large, and of a liquid brown color. One of 
these little creatures which was sent from Pan- 
ama to the National Museum, and there lived 
in captivity, kept itself shut up like a jack-knife 

* Ate-lcs ru-fi-ven'tns. t Ce'bus hy-po-leu'cas. t Nye" ti-pi-the' cits rii'fi-pes. % Nye" ti-pi-the' ens vo-cif er-ans. 




all day long, but at night it was as lively as 
any well-regulated monkey ought to be. 

The Red-backed Teetee, or Squirrel 
Monkey * is by far the most beautiful in form 
and color of all the North American monkeys, 
as well as being an interesting pet in captivity. 
The length of the head and body is about 
twelve inches, and the tail is about the same 
length. In color the whole skull-cap is black; 
the ears, face, neck, and throat are white; the 
back is reddish brown ; the sides of the body, 
forearms, hands, and feet are ocher yellow; and 
the arms, thighs, and upper two-thirds of the tail 
are olive and gray. The tail is not prehensile, 
and the outer third of it is covered with rather 
bushy black hair, longest at the end. 

I once owned a very near relative to the 
species described above, a Teetee, but not this 
identical species, which was about the size of a 
gray squirrel, with the nervous activity and 
sprightliness of three. I bought it of a sleepy 
Indian in South America, and it proved to be 
the plague of several people's lives. 

He could perform one feat which I am sure 
no other monkey can. He could easily climb 
up the corner of a smoothly planed, square - 
* Chrys'o-thrix GLr 1 sted~i. 

cornered door-casing simply by exerting pres- 
sure in two directions with his hands and feet. 
One evening in Demerara, I once saw, during 
half an hour's paddling on the Essequibo River, 
about sixty of these little fellows settling them- 
selves for the night. They huddled close to- 
gether on the large horizontal branches, like a 
flock of sparrows, partly for company, and 
partly for warmth. One that we shot and 
roasted for supper proved to be better flavored 
than any squirrel I ever ate. These monkeys 
are so small they are not swift climbers in the 
tree-tops, and although easy enough to shoot, 
are desperately hard to find afterward. 

Last and least of the North American mon- 
keys is the little Marmoset, or Midas Mon- 
key,! whose home is really in South America, 
but who has wandered as far north as the 
Isthmus of Panama. Like its numerous rela- 
tives farther south, it is no larger than our 
common red squirrel. The face and sides of 
the head are almost naked, and in color this 
little creature is grayish brown on its upper 
parts, and whitish below. The top of the head 
is pure white, and the nape and back of the 
neck is reddish brown. 

t Mi-das Geof'froy-i. 

S#pe Jolj/AillcP 

\;gv-^ t-y , y by 

■*' [ |cJohnErne5b7AcCaim 

QJjifejs e>.§rind!" the mill wheel s&id, 
=^lAnd the jolly old miller laughed 
JFjp'lf it wcs'nt, where would we §et 
V ourbree>.d, 

And butter 6-nd things <j.nd be<\! ' * 
I &m gleeful!/ §le>.d tha.t it isj-he^ 

And he la.u§hed till his eyes danced 

jigs inhishea^d: 
"The grinding in life suits me!" 


(A historical romanced) 

By Mary A. Winston. 

,ABETTE sat in 
the conservatory, 
painting — paint- 
ing the great golden 
roses there with the 
glory of the morning 
sunshine upon them. 
Babette was not unlike 
a golden rose herself as 
she sat there. She wore 
a gown of soft yellow, a 
color in which her artis- 
tic fancy delighted. The 
dancing sunbeams brought out the golden glints 
lurking in the shadow of her curly brown hair. 
But, best of all, one had only to look deep 
down into her sweet dark eyes to see that 
she had a heart of pure gold. 

Yet up to that morning, when she painted 
the roses in the conservatory, our little Babette 
had not had a life of sunshine. When she was 
born, she brought with her a cloud of disap- 
pointment and dismay ; and that cloud hung 
over her still. All Babette's woe was due to 
the fact that she had not come into the world 
a boy. No light-hearted little lass in free 
America, born to an equal share of love and 
consideration with her brothers, can realize 
what misery it meant to Babette to be a girl ; 
for her father was a baron of Prussia under 
the great Frederick, and all the fair, broad 
acres of smiling German landscape for miles 
around his castle belonged to him. But, alas! 
the great castle, the handsome estate, and all, 
must one day fall into the hands of a stranger, 
because they could be inherited only by a male 
heir — and Babette had been born a girl. 

So the tiny girl babe found the world a cold, 
hard place where no welcome awaited her — not 
even among her father's tenants and servants. 

She had no mother to comfort her. Her father 
was one of the generals who helped King 
Frederick win his superb victories, and was 
absent at war or at court most of the time. 
On his rare, brief home visits, he was too much 
occupied to notice his little daughter, or if she 
were brought to his attention, he would merely 
pat her head absently and say : 

" Yes, yes, thou art a good child, little Ba- 
bette ; but thou shouldst have been a boy ! " 

Then it would seem to Babette that her cup 
of sorrow was full, and could not hold one drop 
more of bitterness. She loved her father, and 
longed, in her shy way, for the tender appro- 
bation that he never gave. 

The little Babette had been left to the un- 
gentle hands of her stern Aunt Elise, who, 
besides sharing in the general prejudice against 
the child on account of her sex, regarded her 
with disfavor for another reason : Babette's 
mother had been a French lady, and Aunt 
Elise hated the French. She had received the 
pretty young bride from across the border with 
such cold and repressive treatment that when 
Babette came into the world, her mother, from 
sheer discouragement and homesickness, left it. 
Unfortunately for Babette's peace, she was the 
picture of her dead mother and a thorough lit- 
tle Frenchwoman in her sweet impulsiveness 
and charming inconsistencies. All this Aunt 
Elise hated — she hated the short dark curls 
that waved about Babette's bright face, the 
hair that would not grow long and smooth, and 
could not be made to hang in flaxen braids like 
a true German maiden's. Moreover, the soft 
brown eyes were so like those of the homesick 
little bride that they brought twinges of remorse 
to Aunt Elise's soul; and this made Babette's 
eyes all the more detestable to her for not being 
German blue. 

" It is n't so much that Aunt Elise can't for- 
give me for not being a boy. I could under- 



stand that. Dear father feels the same way," 
Babette would often say to herself, bitterly. 
" But she thinks that even as a girl I am a 
trial and a disappointment. Oh, I can't help 
looking like my dear dead mama! — and I 
can't help it because I would rather paint than 
knit and embroider like Gretchen and Linda. 
It is in me, somehow. But I 
do love my country and good 
King Frederick, for all that, and 
I am — I am Prussian ! If I had 
only been a boy, for dear father's 
sake ! " 

A true little artist, Babette was 
much more skilful with the brush 
than with the needle, and she 
always preferred wandering about 
the beautiful woods and parks 
of her father's estate to sitting 
quietly in the house by her aunt's 

So Babette's short life of six- 
teen years had been a stormy one. 
Though she had a lovely home, 
pretty clothes, servants to wait 
upon her, and masters to teach 
her languages, music, painting, 
and everything that a lady of 
the noble class should know, yet 
she lacked the one essential of 
happiness — love. 

On this particular morning, as 
Babette's little hands were busy over her 
painting of golden roses, her heart was very 
heavy. Her father was at home on a flying 
visit, and only the night before he had com- 
plained regretfully that Babette was not a boy 
so that she might join the army and help 
the poor king drive back his innumerable 

Babette had cried herself to sleep. Ah, why 
must she be such a disappointment and humili- 
ation, when her heart was so full of love for 
them all and ached so with the longing to 
serve them ? This thought was surging over 
and over in Babette's weary brain, when she 
heard the voices of her father and his guest, 
General Kuhland, as they strolled among the 
palms at the other end of the conservatory. 

It was the ever-memorable year 1758, when 

Frederick the Great of Prussia stood like some 
great mythic giant with all Europe snarling like 
wolves about him, ready to devour him. The 


Russians, with that scourge of the East — the 
Cossacks, were upon him, and the Austrians 
encamped on his frontiers. Truly, those were 
troublous times for Prussia, and no one real- 
ized the fact more keenly than did Babette's 
father, whose barony occupied an upper corner 
of the little kingdom, near the border. He 

34 2 BABETTE. 

had come with a detachment from the main 
army to defend his ancestral acres. 

" We are planning the attack for next Thurs- 
day," Babette's father was saying to his friend. 
" My troops are ready for a call at any mo- 
ment ; but there is one thing lacking to com- 
plete our preparations. You know the old mill 
up the river opposite my northeast forest-land ? 
Well, I have not visited it since I was a boy, 
so I can't be sure that there is still a room left 
there with water-tight roofing. If there were, 
we might smuggle provisions and ammunition 
over there in readiness for the campaign. The 
Russians, however, keep this border-land closely 
guarded by bands of mounted Cossacks. I do 
not venture to send any of my men across to 
investigate ; for, in case they are captured, the 
fact that we have sent scouts will warn the 
Russian rascals to be on the watch for an at- 
tack. Then our whole scheme would be 

Babette, sitting with brush suspended, did 
not hear General Kuhland's reply. She was 
thinking of her father's words. The men could 
not go, for that would warn the Russians. An 
idea dawned in Babette's mind. She was not 
a man — why could she not go across the river 
and examine the ruins for her father ? Even 
if the Cossacks did capture her, that could not 
possibly suggest an attack to the Russians. 
There would be no risk to her father's plan 
through her going. 

The question she had been asking so sorrow- 
fully all her life had its answer now. Why had 
she been born a girl ? Why, for this : to aid 
her father in saving their beautiful home from 
a ferocious enemy — ay, more than that, she 
would be helping the good King Frederick in 
his mortal struggle with his foes. All this she 
could do, and could do only because she was a 

The sweet, ruddy color deepened in Ba- 
bette's cheeks as her determination grew. She 
would prove that she did love the dear fa- 
therland, even though Aunt Elise told her 
every day that she was no true German 
maiden, but had inherited entirely from her 
French mother's side. Babette's breath came 
and went so fast, she did not notice that her 
father and General Kuhland had appeared 


from behind the palms and stood gazing at her 
as she painted feverishly on her roses. 

" Ah-h ! behold the spirit of the sunshine ! " 
said the courtly old general, bowing low before 

Babette's father looked down kindly upon 
his daughter. 

"Mein iieb/iitg, I did not see you there. I 
must have taken you for one of those fabulous 
rosebuds that Hans the gardener has been tell- 
ing me about." 

A gentle word from her busy father could 
always brighten the world for Babette. She 
looked up with a shy blush and smiled. 

In a few minutes she escaped to her own 
little tower-room, and ran to the casement to 
"plan her expedition." 

At some distance from the mansion, a stream 
wound in and out like a silver thread through 
the green fields. To the chance visitor at the 
castle, this stream had an interest beyond the 
beauty that it added to the view, for it formed 
the boundary line between Prussia and Russia. 
Its opposite banks were aliens and enemies to 
each other. Babette was thinking of this one 
day as she drifted in her boat along the Ger- 
man side. 

" It is a good thing," she concluded men- 
tally, " that the river talks a language of its 
own, so that those Russian daisies over there 
and the dear little German forget-me-nots on 
this side can both understand what these little 
waves are whispering about." 

Many a delightful hour had Babette dreamed 
away in the old scow on the river, but she de- 
cided that it must serve her for another purpose 
this morning. She must slip away from the 
castle prepared for a sketching trip, to avoid 
inquiry. She would hasten to the northeast 
woods, row the scow across the river to the 
Russian side, land, make her investigations at 
the old mill, and hasten back before her father 
and General Kuhland returned to camp head- 

Babette gathered together her painting-ma- 
terials, then stopped to pin a little note on her 
pillow, " for Father to read if I do not come 
back " — and even brave little Babette shud- 
dered at the possibility. She well knew how 
war prisoners were treated by Cossacks, for 


neither youth nor womanhood gained mercy 
from that fierce and barbarous people. 

Aunt Elise sat embroidering at the window 
of the sunny morning-room as Babette passed 
by on her way to the river. 

" Where are you going now, Wilhelmina ? " 
she asked fretfully. 

She always called Babette by her baptismal 
name, never condescending to use the little 
French nickname her father had given her be- 
cause it was her mother's. 

" I am going out to the northeast woods, 
Aunt Elise. There will be plenty to sketch 
there such a lovely morning. The sunshine is 
so bright, and the little shadows are so deli- 
cious," added Babette dreamily, thinking of the 
old scow floating at its moorings under the 

Aunt Elise looked at the picturesque small 
figure in the yellow gown and demure little cap 
of velvet and pearls, and the vision of that con- 
ventional, flaxen-haired, ideal niece of hers rose 
to vex her mind. 

" Well," she snapped, " you never will be like 
other girls — content to stay in the house and 
learn something that is useful ; but you must al- 
ways be roaming about the country. What 
could I expect 
ofyou, though? 
You 're not a 

Then poor 
Babette, stung 
to the quick, 
grasped her 
paint - brushes 
and fled. Her 
aunt's words 
had clinched 
her purpose if 
she had been 
inclined to 
waver at the 
thought of 

capture by the Cossacks. She sped through 
the woodland, and was soon standing under the 
willows where the glimmering sunbeams and 
the dancing little shadows were " delicious," as 
she had said. 


As she was about to jump into the boat, she 
hesitated whether to leave her easel and paint- 
box behind or not. She thought at first they 
would only be in her way. The next moment, 
however, she turned back and threw them in. 

" Now," she said to herself, as she pushed 
off, " if the Cossacks come and find me only 
painting, perhaps they will think that is harm- 
less and let me alone." 

Babette had an active brain under that thatch 
of wayward brown curls. 


Babette paddled the scow slowly across the 
river, selected a good place to land, and then 
cautiously crept up the forbidden bank. As it 
was war-time, no Prussian had any right upon 
that soil, even if the trespasser was but a few 
rods away from his own ground. 

Babette with a beating heart stole softly 
through the woods along the riverside. She 
almost prayed that the branches and shrubs 
might not crackle under her feet. Her every 
sense was on the alert. Once she startled a 
timid gray rabbit in the wood ; and he in turn 
made her heart jump when he leaped through 
some dry, fallen twigs. But she began to feel 

mm m 


more reassured when she reached the little foot- 
path leading to the ruins of the old mill, for still 
no one was in sight. 

The ancient stone pile stood near the edge of 
the river; it had long been deserted and use- 




less, but the ivy and beautiful red trumpet- 
creepers had seized upon it and made it their 
own as soon as man had forsaken it. Babette 
entered cautiously at the weather-beaten en- 
trance, over which drooped the long trailing 
vines. She began to examine the premises 

The main part of the building, where the 
grain had been ground, was entirely unroofed, 
and the blue sky arched over it ; a soft carpet 
of green moss covered the stone flagging of the 
floor; here and there, parts of the walls were 
gone, and through these loopholes glimpses of 
the silvery waters of the river were to be seen. 

Babette sighed : " I am afraid it will do 
Father no good, after all. It is beautiful, but 
ruined utterly." 

The rest of the one-story building seemed to 
have been used as a kind of store-room for the 
grain-sacks. This part was in a state of worse 
dilapidation than the main wing. Babette was 
bitterly disappointed. It had not occurred to 
her that her errand might be a fruitless one 
even if she escaped detection. With these 
thoughts in her mind, she was standing looking 
away through a broad gap in the wall to the 
leafy aisle of woodland bordering the river. 

Suddenly she said to herself: " I wonder 
what can be seen from that high opening in the 
other wall, over there — above this great pile of 
stones. I believe I will climb up and see. There 
must be a view of the river on that side." 

Up Babette sprang from one stone to the 
other, like a gigantic, tawny squirrel, and at last 
she could peer through the opening. There, to 
her surprise, she found that she was looking 
down into what had once been in all probabil- 
ity the mill-owner's little private office. 

It opened only into the store-room, and had 
no direct communication with the main part of 
the mill. The one entrance to the store-room was 
blocked by the fallen walls, and had escaped Ba- 
bette's notice. She observed with joy that this 
room was in a better condition than the rest of 
the building. To be sure, the floor was partially 
gone, and Babette, looking down through the 
hole, could see the old water-wheel, moss- 
covered, but gay in its silent old age with the 
scarlet blossoms of a day. True, there was a 
place where the window had once been, but 

it could easily be boarded over or blocked up. 
And as for the hole in the floor, that could do 
no harm, for the rest of the flagging was strong 
and safe, the supports underneath being firm 
still. Nay, this very hole might be of excellent 
service, since the men with the stores of powder 
could creep from the riverside, past the old 
water-wheel, to the ruins, and hand up their 
treasure through the hole to one of their num- 
ber above in the room. 

Babette's quick mind grasped these possibili- 
ties at once. Then she perched herself on her 
lofty pinnacle of stones, and drew a plan of the 
ruin, showing especially the position and capa- 
bilities of the miller's office. The soft breeze 
from the river stirred the damp curls about 
Babette's flushed face. The gay red trumpets 
at the small window nodded knowingly, as if 
they would say : 

"We knew it all the while — we knew it — we 
knew it ! " 

Babette's heart beat happily now, and every- 
thing seemed to accord with her mood. How 
glad and proud she should be to show that plan 
to her father, with Aunt Elise and General 
Kuhland standing by ! She folded the paper 
and hid it inside the bosom of her gown. That 
done, she decided to descend and sketch the 
approach from the river-bank, past the mill- 

Babette felt very safe down behind the ruins, 
securely hidden from the sight of any one in 
the- path above. So, when she had finished the 
second drawing for her father's inspection, she 
could not resist the temptation to sketch the 
mossy old wheel. Then she wanted to try her 
hand at the colors, and set up her easel and 
fell to work painting. The artist in Babette 
was uppermost now, and her fears were for- 
gotten. No sound broke the stillness except 
the murmur of the little ripples on the shore. 
Surely there could be no danger in staying just 
a little longer. " There is nothing like this for 
beauty on our side," she murmured to herself. 

Ah, Babette, Babette, if only the pretty red 
trumpets waving in the breeze from the height 
of the old mill-tower could have whispered to 
you that they saw, far off along the plain, a tiny 
cloud of dust which grew larger and larger! 
But Babette's brown curls bent low over her 

i8 9 4-: 

work, and the friendly red trumpets nodded and 
beckoned their warning in vain. She was ab- 
sorbed in mixing her colors to get just the right 
shades of gray and green combined in the pic- 
turesque old wheel, when she became conscious 


" There is n't time to get away. They must 
find me painting," she gasped, and fell to work 

Fate had doomed Babette to discovery ; for 
had she remained above in the heart of the ruins 


"'ah-h: behold the spirit of the sunshine 
the courtly old general." (see page 34: 

of the sound of horses' feet on the highway 
above. Her heart stood still. It must be the 
Cossacks ! Oh, why had she not gone before, 
when she might safely have done so ? 

Voices soon reached Babette's ear. She 
picked up her brushes, which she had thrown 
down in her first terror. 
Vol. XXI.— 44. 

she would not have been seen. But the Cos- 
sacks, for such the new-comers were, decided to 
lead their horses to water at the river and then 
rest themselves awhile in the shade behind the 




old mill, as it was hot and dusty riding that day. 
Soon, therefore, six or seven tall, savage-looking 
figures issued from around the corner of the mill. 
They tied their horses to some trees, and lay 
down near by. Babette could hear them jab- 
bering away in their strange guttural fashion. 

By and by one of these gigantic sons of Mars 
happened to turn his lazy length over, and in 
so doing caught a glimpse of Babette's yellow 
gown. He spoke a few words to his compan- 
ions, and the group was instantly alive with in- 
terest. Babette heard them approach ; the evil 
day was upon her. But, somehow, in the face 
of real danger there arose in Babette's heart a 
feeling of courage which made her ready for 
any fate. For she was the daughter of a race 
of warriors who had fought by the side of the 
rulers of Prussia for many generations. 





The half-dozen grim and cruel faces were 
very near now. Such a wild, unkempt-looking 
company they were, with their matted beards 

and mustachios, and outlandish caps ! The 
tallest and gauntest Cossack rushed forward to 
seize Babette. He was about to clutch her arm, 
when Babette raised her brush and coolly drew 
it across the intruder's face, painting a wide 
scarlet streak upon his cheek. The fellow 
stumbled back in confusion at this novel attack, 
while his companions roared in derision. Then 
they all caught sight of Babette's picture. In 
an instant the expression of the whole group 
was transformed from the ferocity of the wild 
beast to the eager curiosity of the small child. 
In a twinkling of the eye, the wild Cossacks of 
the plains were tamed. They had never seen 
a picture before ! 

Babette was soon startled by a wolf-like vis- 
age peering over her shoulder, then another — 
and another, until the whole group had crowded 
around her, silently, almost breathlessly, 
watching her put in rapid strokes to fin- 
ish the picture. 

A strong wind began to blow, and it 
hindered Babette. It threatened to blow 
away easel, picture, and all. By signs 
she made the giant Cossack leader 
understand that she wished him to 
steady the easel and hold down the 
refractory picture upon it. He obeyed 
without a word, and stood patiently 
while Babette went on painting uncon- 
cernedly. For what need she fear, who 
could control even the barbarous Cos- 
sack? Vain little Babette! It is not 
you, but curiosity, that has completed 
this marvelous conquest. The wild Cos- 
sack will lay aside his native ferocity 
any time to gratify his ruling passion, 
the desire to investigate. 

When the picture was done, Babette 
arose and gave it to one of the Cossacks. 
While they were all quarreling violently 
as to which of them should have the 
treasure, Babette gathered up her traps 
and hastened away through the woods. 
The soldiers in their noisy altercation 
did not notice her flight until it was too 
late, for Babette was just pushing the 
old scow off into the stream again. 

It was not long, you may be sure, before 
Babette was safe on German territory once more. 

is 9 4-: 



How the blushes chased one another over 
Babette's tear-stained cheeks ! Her face was 
bathed in rosy color. The general rose, shook 
hands with her impressively, and praised her for 
her devotion to her country. Even Aunt Elise 
unbent from her usual cold 
manner, and exclaimed not 
unkindly : 

" How tired and warm 
you look, child ; and you 
have a great rent in your 


She burst into the 
stately banquet- 
hall at the castle, 
where Aunt Elise 

presided and her father was talking politics 
with General Kuhland. Babette's curls 
were flying and her eyes sparkled. 

" Oh, Father," she cried, " I have a dia- 
gram of the old mill on the Russian side, and it 
is safe for use ! I heard you talking about it in 
the conservatory this morning, and I thought it 
would n't make any difference if I were cap- 
tured, because — because," here the sobs would 
come up in brave little Babette's throat, though 
she had not wept to see the fierce Cossack — 
" because nobody wanted me here at home — 
because I — I am a girl." 

And Babette finished her story with a con- 
fused burst of tears. 

The next moment Babette found herself 
where she had so often longed to be — in her fa- 
ther's arms, and he was looking at her with 
pride and tenderness shining in his eyes. He 
led his daughter to the old warrior on the other 
side of the table. 

" General," he said, " here is one whom Prus- 
sia may be proud to call her own ! " 


gown I " It was the happiest moment in Ba- 
bette's life. 

She then explained the plans which she had 
drawn. There was nothing lacking in the de- 
scription, every detail was as clear as noonday. 

" She ought to have been a boy!" exclaimed 
General Kuhland. " What rare campaigns she 
would plan — and execute too ! She ought to 
have been a boy ! " 

" And, by my sword, she shall be — or as 
good as one ! " cried the great Frederick when 
he heard of her exploit, for he knew the shadow 
that hung over Babette's home — the lack of a 
male heir. 

So, under his own hand and seal, the good 
king cut off the entail in the succession to the 
estates, as they express it ; and little Babette, 
by a stroke of the royal pen, became, in law, a 
boy, and heir to all her father's possessions. 


By Huck Finn. Edited by Mark Twain. 

[Begun in tlu November number.] 

Chapter VIII. 

We had an early breakfast in the morning, 
and set looking down on the desert, and the 
weather was ever so bammy and lovely, although 
we war n't high up. You have to come down 
lower and lower after sundown, in the desert, 
because it cools off so fast ; and so, by the time 
it is getting towards dawn you are skimming 
along only a little ways above the sand. 

We was watching the shadder of the balloon 
slide along the ground, and now and then gaz- 
ing off across the desert to see if anything was 
stirring, and then down at the shadder again, 
when all of a sudden almost right under us we 
see a lot of men and camels laying scattered 
about, perfectly quiet, like they was asleep. 

We shut off the power, and backed up and 
stood over them, and then we see that they was 
all dead. It give us the cold shivers. And it 
made us hush down, too, and talk low, like peo- 
ple at a funeral. We dropped down slow, and 
stopped, and me and Tom dumb down and 
went amongst them. There was men, and wo- 
men, and children. They was dried by the sun 
and dark and shriveled and leathery, like the 
pictures of mummies you see in books. And 
yet they looked just as human, you would n't 'a' 
believed it; just like they was asleep. 

Some of the people and animals was partly 
covered with sand, but most of them not, for 
the sand was thin there, and the bed was 
gravel, and hard. Most of the clothes had 
rotted away; and when you took hold of 
a rag, it tore with a touch, like spider-web. 
Tom reckoned they had been laying there for 

Some of the men had rusty guns by them, 
some had swords on and had shawl belts with 
long silver-mounted pistols stuck in them. All 
the camels had their loads on, yet, but the packs 
had busted or rotted and spilt the freight out 

on the ground. We did n't reckon the swords 
was any good to the dead people any more, so 
we took one apiece, and some pistols. We took 
a small box, too, because it was so handsome 
and inlaid so fine ; and then we wanted to bury 
the people ; but there war n't no way to do it 
that we could think of, and nothing to do it 
with but sand, and that would blow away again, 
of course. 

Then we mounted high and sailed away, and 
pretty soon that black spot on the sand was out 
of sight and we would n't ever see them poor 
people again in this world. We wondered, and 
reasoned, and tried to guess how they come to 
be there, and how it all happened to them, but 
we could n't make it out. First we thought 
maybe they got lost, and wandered around and 
about till their food and water give out and 
they starved to death ; but Tom said no wild 
animals nor vultures had n't meddled with them, 
and so that guess would n't do. So at last we 
give it up, and judged we would n't think about 
it no more, because it made us low-spirited. 

Then we opened the box, and it had gems 
and jewels in it, quite a pile, and some little 
veils of the kind the dead women had on, with 
fringes made out of curious gold money that we 
war n't acquainted with. We wondered if we 
better go and try to find them again and give 
it back ; but Tom thought it over and said no, 
it was a country that was full of robbers, and 
they would come and steal it, and then the sin 
would be on us for putting the temptation in 
their way. So we went on ; but I wished we 
had took all they had, so there would n't 'a' 
been no temptation at all left. 

We had had two hours of that blazing wea- 
ther down there, and was dreadful thirsty when 
we got aboard again. We went straight for 
the water, but it was spoiled and bitter, besides 
being pretty near hot enough to scald your 
mouth. We could n't drink it. It was Missis- 
sippi river water, the best in the world, and we 




stirred up the mud in it to see if that would we could n't hold them any more. Two 

help, but no, the mud was n't any better than hours — three hours — just gazing and gazing, 

the water. and nothing but sand, sand, sand, and you 

Well, we had n't been so very, very thirsty could see the quivering heat-shimmer playing 

before, whilst we was interested in the lost over it. Dear, dear, a body don't know what 

people, but we was, now, and as soon as we real misery is till he is thirsty all the way 

found we could n't have a drink, we was more through and is certain he ain't ever going to 

than thirty-five times as thirsty as we was a come to any water any more. At last I 







quarter of a minute before. Why, in a little 
while we wanted to hold our mouths open and 
pant like a dog. 

Tom said to keep a sharp lookout, all around, 
everywheres, because we 'd got to find an oasis 
or there war n't no telling what would happen. 
So we done it. We kept the glasses gliding 
around all the time, till our arms got so tired 

could n't stand it to look around on them bak- 
ing plains; I laid down on the locker, and 
give it up. 

But by and by Tom raised a whoop, and 
there she was ! A lake, wide and shiny, with 
pam-trees leaning over it asleep, and their 
shadders in the water just as soft and delicate 
as ever you see. I never see anything look so 




good. It was a long ways off, but that war n't 
anything to us ; we just slapped on a hundred- 
mile gait, and calculated to be there in seven 
minutes ; but she stayed the same old distance 
away, all the time ; we could n't seem to gain 
on her; yes, sir, just as far, and shiny, and 
like a dream; but we could n't get no nearer; 
and at last, all of a sudden, she was gone ! 

Tom's eyes took a spread, and he says — 

" Boys, it was a //midge ! " Said it like he 
was glad. I did n't see nothing to be glad 
about. I says — 

" May be. I don't care nothing about its 
name, the thing I want to know is, what 's 
become of it ? " 

Jim was trembling all over, and so scared he 
could n't speak, but he wanted to ask that 
question himself if he could 'a' done it. Tom 
says — 

" What 's become of it ? Why, you see, your- 
self, it 's gone." 

" Yes, I know ; but where 's it gone to ? " 

He looked me over and says — 

"Well, now, Huck Finn, where would it go 
to ? Don't you know what a myridge is ? " 

" No, I don't. What is it ? " 

" It ain't anything but imagination. There 
ain't anything to it." 

It warmed me up a little to hear him talk 
like that, and I says — 

" What 's the use you talking that kind of 
stuff, Tom Sawyer ? Did n't I see the lake ? " 

"Yes — you think you did." 

" I don't think nothing about it, I did see it." 

" I tell you you did n't see it, either — because 
it war n't there to see." 

It astonished Jim to hear him talk so, and 
he broke in and says, kind of pleading and 
distressed — 

" Mars' Tom, please don't say sich things in 
sich an awful time as dis. You ain't only 
reskin' yo' own self, but you 's reskin' us — 
same way like Anna Nias en' Siffira. De lake 
ivuz dah — I seen it jis' as plain as I sees you 
en Huck dis minute." 

I says — 

" Why, he seen it himself! He was the very 
one that seen it first. Now, then ! " 

"Yes, Mars' Tom, hit 's so — you can't deny 
it. We all seen it, en dat prove it was dah." 

" Proves it ! How does it prove it ? " 

" Same way it does in de courts en every- 
wheres, Mars' Tom. One pusson might be 
drunk, or dreamy or suthin', en he could be 
mistaken ; en two might, maybe ; but I tell 
you, sah, when three sees a thing, drunk er 
sober, it 's so. Dey ain't no gittin' aroun' dat, 
en you knows it, Mars' Tom." 

" I don't know nothing of the kind. There 
used to be forty thousand million people that 
seen the sun move from one side of the sky to 
the other every day. Did that prove that the 
sun done it ? " 

" 'Course it did. En besides, dey war n't no 
'casion to prove it. A body 'at 's got any sense 
ain't gwine to doubt it. Dah she is, now — 
a sailin' thoo de sky, like she allays done." 

Tom turned on me, then, and says — 

"What do you say — is the sun standing 

"Tom Sawyer, what 's the use to ask such a 
jackass question ? Anybody that ain't blind 
can see it don't stand still." 

"Well," he says, "I 'm lost in the sky with 
no company but a passel of low-down animals 
that don't know no more than the head boss 
of a university did three or four hundred years 

It war n't fair play, and I let him know it. 
I says — 

"Throwin' mud ain't arguin', Tom Sawyer." 

" Oh, my goodness, oh, my goodness gra- 
cious, dah 's de lake ag'in ! " yelled Jim, just 
then. " Noia, Mars' Tom, what you gwine to 

Yes, sir, there was the lake again, away yon- 
der across the desert, perfectly plain, trees and 
all, just the same as it was before. I says — 

" I reckon you 're satisfied now, Tom Saw- 

But he says, perfectly ca'm — 

" Yes, satisfied there ain't no lake there." 

Jim says — 

" Don't talk so, Mars' Tom — it sk'yers me to 
hear you. It 's so hot, en you 's so thirsty, dat 
you ain't in yo' right mine, Mars' Tom. Oh, 
but don't she look good ! 'clah I doan' know 
how I 's gwine to wait tell we gits dah, I 's so 

" Well, you '11 have to wait ; and it won't do 

i8 9 4-; 



you no good, either, because there ain't no lake 
there, I tell you." 

I says — 

" Jim, don't you take your eye off of it, and 
I won't, either." 

" 'Deed I won't ; en bless you, honey, I 
could n't ef I wanted to." 

We went a-tearing along toward it, piling the 
miles behind us like nothing, but never gaining 
an inch on it — and all of a sudden it was gone 
again ! Jim staggered, and most fell down. 
When he got his breath he says, gasping like 
a fish — 

" Mars Tom, hit 's a ghos', dat 's what it is, 
en I hopes to goodness we ain't gwine to see it 
no mo'. Dey 's been a lake, en suthin 's hap- 
pened, en de lake 's dead, en we 's seen its 
ghos' ; we 's seen it twiste, en dat 's proof. De 
desert 's ha'nted, it 's ha'nted, sho' ; oh, Mars 
Tom, le's git outen it ; I 'd ruther die den have 
de night ketch us in it ag'in en de ghos' er dat 
lake come a-mournin' aroun' us en we asleep 
en doan know de danger we 's in." 

" Ghost, you gander ! It ain't anything but 
air and heat and thirstiness pasted together 
by a person's imagination. If I — gimme the 
glass ! " 

He grabbed it and begun to gaze off to the 

" It 's a flock of birds," he says. " It 's get- 

ting toward sundown, and they 're making a 
bee-line across our track for somewheres. They 
mean business — maybe they 're going for 
food or water, or both. Let her go to star- 
board ! — Port your helium! Hard down! 
There — ease up — steady, as you go." 

We shut down 
some of the power, 
so as not to outspeed 
them, and took out 
after them. We went 
skimming along a 
quarter of a mile be- 
hind them, and when 
we had followed them 
an hour and a half 
and was getting 
pretty discouraged, 
and was thirsty clear) 
to unendurableness, 
Tom says — 

" Take the glass, 
one of you, and see 
what that is, away 
ahead of the birds." 

Jim got the first 
glimpse, and slumped 
down on the locker, 
sick. He was most 
crying, and says — 


>; 4 \ 

'we catched a lot of the nicest fish you ever see." (see page 354.) 



" She 's dah agi'n, Mars Tom, she 's dah 
ag'in, en I knows I 's gwine to die, 'case when 
a body sees a ghos' de third time, dat 's what 
it means. I wisht I 'd never come in dis bal- 
loon, dat I does." 

He would n't look no more, and what he said 
made me afraid, too, because I knowed it was 
true, for that has always been the way with 
ghosts; so then I would n't look any more, 
either. Both of us begged Tom to turn off 
and go some other way, but he would n't, and 
said we was ignorant superstitious blatherskites. 
Yes, and he '11 git come up with, one of these 
days, I says to myself, insulting ghosts that 
way. They '11 stand it for a while, maybe, but 
they won't stand it always, for anybody that 
knows about ghosts knows how easy they are 
hurt, and how revengeful they are. 

So we was all quiet and still, Jim and me 
being scared, and Tom busy. By and by Tom 
fetched the balloon to a standstill, and says — 

"Now get up and look, you sapheads." 

We done it, and there was the sure-enough 
water right under us ! — clear, and blue, and 
cool, and deep, and wavy with the breeze, the 
loveliest sight that ever was. And all about 
it was grassy banks, and flowers, and shady 
groves of big trees, looped together with vines, 
and all looking so peaceful and comfortable, 
enough to make a body cry, it was so beautiful. 

Jim did cry, and rip and dance and carry on, 
he was so thankful and out of his mind for joy. 
It was my watch, so I had to stay by the 
works, but Tom and Jim dumb down and 
drunk a barrel apiece, and fetched me up a lot, 
and I 've tasted a many a good thing in my 
life, but nothing that ever begun with that 

Then we went down and had a swim, and 
then Tom came up and spelled me, and me 
and Jim had a swim, and then Jim spelled 
Tom, and me and Tom had a foot-race and a 
boxing-mill, and I don't reckon I ever had 
such a good time in my life. It war n't so 
very hot, because it was close on to evening, 
and we had n't any clothes on, anyway. Clothes 
is well enough in school, and in towns, and at 
balls, too, but there ain't no sense in them 
when there ain't no civilization nor other kinds 
of bothers and fussiness around. 
Vol. XXL— 45. 

"Lions a-comin' ! — lions! Quick, Mars 
Tom, jump for yo' life, Huck ! " 

Oh, and did n't we ! We never stopped for 
clothes, but waltzed up the ladder just so. 
Jim lost his head straight off— he always done 
it whenever he got excited and scared ; and so 
now, 'stead of just easing the ladder up from 
the ground a little, so the animals could n't 
reach it, he turned on a raft of power, and 
we went whizzing up and was dangling in 
the sky before he got his wits together and 
seen what a foolish thing he was doing. Then 
he stopped her, but he had clean forgot what 
to do next ; so there we was, so high that the 
lions looked like pups, and we was drifting off 
on the wind. 

But Tom he shinned up and went for the 
works and begun to slant her down, and back 
towards the lake, where the animals was gather- 
ing like a camp-meeting, and I judged he had 
lost his head, too ; for he knowed I was too 
scared to climb, and did he want to dump me 
among the tigers and things ? 

But no, his head was level, he knowed what 
he was about. He swooped down to within 
thirty or forty feet of the lake, and stopped 
right over the center, and sung out — 

" Leggo, and drop ! " 

I done it, and shot down, feet first, and 
seemed to go about a mile toward the bottom; 
and when I come up, he says — 

" Now lay on your back and float till you 're 
rested and got your pluck back, then I '11 dip 
the ladder in the water and you can climb 

I done it. Now that was ever so smart in 
Tom, because if he had started off somewheres 
else to drop down on the sand, the menagerie 
would 'a' come along, too, and might 'a' kept 
us hunting a safe place till I got tuckered out 
and fell. 

And all this time the lions and tigers was 
sorting out the clothes, and trying to divide 
them up so there would be some for all, but 
there was a misunderstanding about it some- 
wheres, on accounts of some of them trying to 
hog more than their share; so there was an- 
other insurrection, and you never see anything 
like it in the world. There must 'a' been fifty 
of them, all mixed up together, snorting and 




roaring and snapping and biting and tearing, 
legs and tails in the air and you could n't tell 
which was which, and the sand and fur a-flying. 
And when they got done, some was dead, and 
some was limping oft' crippled, and the rest was 
setting around on the battle-field, some of them 
licking their sore places and the others looking 
up at us and -seemed to be kind of inviting us 
to come down and have some fun, but which 
we did n't want any. 

As for the clothes, they war n't any, any 
more. Every last rag of them was inside of the 
animals; and not agreeing with them very well, 
I don't reckon, for there was considerable many 
brass buttons on them, and there was knives in 
the pockets, too, and smoking-tobacco, and 
nails and chalk and marbles and fish-hooks and 
things. But I was n't caring. All that was 
bothering me was, that all we had, now, was the 
Professor's clothes, a big enough assortment, 
but not suitable to go into company with, if we 
came across any, because the britches was as 
long as tunnels, and the coats and things ac- 
cording. Still, there was everything a tailor 
needed, and Jim was a kind of jack-legged 
tailor, and he allowed he could soon trim a suit 
or two down for us that would answer. 

Chapter IX. 

Still, we thought we would drop down 
there a minute, but on another errand. Most 
of the Professor's cargo of food was put up in 
cans, in the new way that somebody had just 
invented, the rest was fresh. When you fetch 
Missouri beefsteak to the Great Sahara, you 
want to be particular and stay up in the coolish 
weather. So we reckoned we would drop down 
into the lion market and see how we could 
make out there. 

We hauled in the ladder and dropped down 
till we was just above the reach of the animals, 
then we let down a rope with a slip-knot in it 
and hauled up a dead lion, a small tender one, 
then yanked up a cub tiger. We had to keep 
the congregation off with the revolver, or they 
would 'a' took a hand in the proceedings and 

We carved off a supply from both, and saved 
the skins, and hove the rest overboard. Then 
we baited some of the Professor's hooks with 

the fresh meat and went a-fishing. We stood 
over the lake just a convenient distance above 
the water, and catched a lot of the nicest fish 
you ever see. It was a most amazing good 
supper we had ; lion steak, tiger steak, fried 
fish and hot corn pone. I don't want no- 
thing better than that. 

We had some fruit to finish off with. We 
got it out of the top of a monstrous tall tree. 
It was a very slim tree that had n't a branch 
on it from the bottom plumb to the top, and 
there it busted out like a feather-duster. It 
was a pam tree, of course ; anybody knows a 
pam tree the minute he see it, by the pictures. 
We went for coconuts in this one, but there 
war n't none. There was only big loose bunches 
of things like over-sized grapes, and Tom al- 
lowed they was dates, because he said they 
answered the description in the Arabian Nights 
and the other books. Of course they might n't 
be, and they might be pison ; so we had to 
wait a spell, and watch and see if the birds et 
them. They done it ; so we done it too, and 
they was most amazing good. 

By this time monstrous big birds begun to 
come and settle on the dead animals. They 
was plucky creturs ; they would tackle one end 
of a lion that was being gnawed at the other 
end by another lion. If the lion drove the bird 
away, it did n't do no good, he was back again 
the minute the lion was busy. 

The big birds come out of every part of the 
sky — you could make them out with the glass 
whilst they was still so far away you could n't 
see them with your naked eye. Tom said the 
birds did n't find out the meat was there by 
the smell, they had to find it out by seeing it. 
Oh, but ain't that an eye for you ! Tom said 
at the distance of five mile a patch of dead 
lions could n't look any bigger than a person's 
finger nail, and he could n't imagine how the 
birds could notice such a little thing so far off. 

It was strange and unnatural to see lion eat 
lion, and we thought maybe they war n't kin. 
But Jim said that did n't make no difference. 
He said a hog was fond of her own "children, 
and so was a spider, and he reckoned maybe a 
lion was pretty near as unprincipled though 
maybe not quite. He thought likely a lion 
would n't eat his own father, if he knowed 



which was him, but reckoned he would eat his 
brother-in-law if he was uncommon hungry, and 
eat his mother-in-law any time. But reckoning 
don't settle nothing. You can reckon till the 
cows come home, but that don't fetch you to 
no decision. So we give it up and let it drop. 

Generly it was very still in the Desert, nights, 
but this time there was music. A lot of other 
animals come to dinner; sneaking yelpers that 
Tom allowed was jackals, and roached-backed 
ones that he said was hyenas ; and all the 
whole biling of them kept up a racket all the 
time. They made a picture in the moonlight 
that was more different than any picture I ever 
see. We had a line out and made fast to the 
top of a tree, and did n't stand no watch, but all 
turned in and slept, but I was up two or three 
times to look down at the animals and hear the 
music. It was like having a front seat at a 
menagerie for nothing, which I had n't ever 
had before, and so it seemed foolish to sleep 
and not make the most of it, I might n't ever 
have such a chance again. 

We went a-fishing again in the early dawn, 
and then lazied around all day in the dee]) 
shade on an island, taking turn about to watch 
and see that none of the animals come a-snoop- 
ing around there after erronorts for dinner. We 
was going to leave next day, but could n't, it 
was too lovely. 

The day after, when we rose up toward the 
sky and sailed off eastward, we looked back 
and watched that place till it war n't nothing 
but just a speck in the Desert, and I tell you it 
was like saying good-by to a friend that you 
ain't ever going to see any more. 

Jim was thinking to himself, and at last he 
says — 

" Mars Tom, we 's mos' to de end er de 
Desert now, I speck." 

" Why ? " 

" Well, hit stan' to reason we is. You knows 
how long we 's been a-skimmin' over it. Mus' 
be mos' out o' san'. Hit 's a wonder to me dat 
it 's hilt out as long as it has." 

" Shucks, there 's plenty sand, you need n't 

" Oh, I ain't a-worryin', Mars Tom, only 
.wonderin', dat 's all. De Lord 's got plenty 
san' I ain't doubtin' dat, but nemmine, He ain' 

gwyne to was'e it jist on dat account ; en I 
allows dat dis Desert 's plenty big enough now, 
jist de way she is, en you can't spread her out 
no mo' 'dout was'in san'." 

" Oh, go 'long ! we ain't much more than 
fairly started across this Desert yet. The United 
States is a pretty big country, ain't it ? Ain't 
it, Huck ? " 

" Yes," I says, " there ain't no bigger one, I 
don't reckon." 

" Well," he says, " this Desert is about the 
shape of the United States, and if you was to 
lay it down on top of the United States, it 
would cover the land of the free out of sight 
like a blanket. There 'd be a little corner 
sticking out, up at Maine and away up north- 
west, and Florida sticking out like a turtle's 
tail, and that 's all. We 've took California 
away from the Mexicans two or three years 
ago, so that part of the Pacific coast is ours, 
now, and if you laid the Great Sahara down 
with her edge on the Pacific, she would cover 
the United States and stick out past New York 
six hundred miles into the Atlantic Ocean." 

I says — 

" Good land ! have you got the documents 
for that, Tom Sawyer ? " 

" Yes, and they 're right here, and I 've been 
studying them. You can look for yourself. 
From New York to the Pacific is 2,600 miles. 
From one end of the Great Desert to the other 
is 3,200. The United States contains 3,600,000 
square miles, the Desert contains 4,162,000. 
With the Desert's bulk you could cover up 
every last inch of the United States, and in 
under where the edges projected out, you could 
tuck England, Scotland, Ireland, France, Den- 
mark, and all Germany. Yes, sir, you could 
hide the home of the brave and all of them 
countries clean out of sight under the Great 
Sahara, and you would still have 2,000 square 
miles of sand left." 

" Well," I says, " it clean beats me. Why, 
Tom, it shows that the Lord took as much 
pains makin' this Desert as makin' the United 
States and all them other countries." 

Jim says — " Huck, dat don' stan' to reason. 
I reckon dis Desert wa' n't made, at all. Now 
you take en look at it like dis — you look at it, 
and see ef I 's right. What 's a desert good for? 




'T ain't good for nuthin'. Dey ain't no way to 
make it pay. Hain't dat so, Huck ? " 

" Yes, I reckon." 

" Hain't it so, Mars Tom ? " 

" I guess so. Go on." 

" Ef a thing ain't no good, it 's made in vain, 
ain't it? " 

" Yes." 

" Now, den ! Do de Lord make anything 
in vain ? You answer me dat." 

" Well — no, He don't." 

" Den how come He make a desert ? " 

"Well, go on. How (fit/He come to make it? " 

" Mars Tom, / b'lieve it uz jes like when 
you 's buildin' a house ; dey 's allays a lot o' 
truck en rubbish lef over. What does you do 
wid it ? Doan' you take en k'yart it off en 
dump it into a ole vacant back lot ? 'Course. 
Now, den, it 's my opinion hit was jes like 
dat — dat de Great Sahara war n't made at all, 
she jes happen'." 

I said it was a real good argument, and I 
believed it was the best one Jim ever made. 
Tom he said the same, but said the trouble 
about arguments is, they ain't nothing but theo- 
ries, after all, and theories don't prove nothing, 
they only give you a place to rest on, a spell, 
when you are tuckered out butting around and 
around trying to find out something there ain't 
no way to find out. And he says — 

" There 's another trouble about theories : 
there 's always a hole in them somewheres, 
sure, if you look close enough. It 's just so 
with this one of Jim's. Look what billions and 
billions of stars there is. How does it come 
that there was just exactly enough star-stuff, 
and none left over ? How does it come there 
ain't no sand-pile up there ? " 

But Jim was fixed for him and says — 

"What 's de Milky Way? — dat 's what / 
wants to know. What 's de Milky Way ? An- 
swer me dat ! " 

In my opinion it was just a sockdologer. 
It 's only an opinion, it 's only my opinion and 
others may think different; but I said it then 
and I stand to it now — it was a sockdologer. 
And moreover, besides, it landed Tom Sawyer. 

( To lie eon 

He could n't say a word. He had that stunned 
look of a person that 's been shot in the back 
with a kag of nails. All he said was, as for 
people 'like me and Jim, he 'd just as soon have 
intellectual intercourse with a catfish. But 
anybody can say that — and I notice they al- 
ways do, when somebody has fetched them a 
lifter. Tom Sawyer was tired of that end of 
the subject. 

So we got back to talking about the size of 
the Desert again, and the more we compared it 
with this and that and t' other thing, the more 
nobler and bigger and grander it got to look, 
right along. And so, hunting amongst the rig- 
gers, Tom found, by and by, that it was just 
the same size as the Empire of China. Then 
he showed us the spread the Empire of China 
made on the map, and the room she took up 
in the world. Well, it was wonderful to think 
of, and I says — 

" Why, I 've heard talk about this Desert 
plenty of times, but / never knowed, before, 
how important she was." 

Then Tom says — 

"Important! Sahara important ! That 's just 
the way with some people. If a thing 's big, 
it 's important. That 's all the sense they 've 
got. All they can see is size. Why, look at 
England. It 's the most important country in 
the world ; and yet you could put it in China's 
vest pocket ; and not only that, but you 'd 
have the dickens's own time to find it again the 
next time you wanted it. And look at Russia. 
It spreads all around and everywhere, and yet 
ain't no more important in this world than 
Rhode Island is, and has n't got half as much 
in it that 's worth saving." 

Away off, now, we see a little hill, a-standing 
up just on the edge of the world. Tom broke 
off his talk, and reached for a glass very much 
excited, and took a look, and says — 

" That 's it — it 's the one I 've been looking 
for, sure. If I 'm right, it 's the one the Der- 
vish took the man into and showed him all the 

So we begun to gaze, and he begun to tell 
about it out of the Arabian Nights. 

Hinted. ) 


By Malcolm Douglas. 

I live in a musical neighborhood, 
And I 'd certainly move out at once if I could, 
But I 've taken my flat till the first of next May, 
So you see very well that I can't get away. 

There 's a young man down-stairs who sits up late at night, 
And thumps on the banjo with wearisome might, 
"While I walk up and down, for I can't sleep a wink 
For the sound of his plinkety-plinkety-plink ! 

On the floor just below there 's a man with a flute - 
Oh, that tootlety-tootlety-tootlety-toot ! 
To the nerves it is quite as distressing, I think, 
As the other one's plinkety-plinkety-plink ! 

A man on a trombone below tries to bang, 
But all he gets from it is whangety-whang ; 
And it 's dreadful, mixed up with the banjo and flute- 
Whang- whangety-plinkety-tootlety-toot ! 

And then there 's a quartet of zealous young men, 

"Who try glees and anthems again and again ; 

But all that they do is so woefully queer 

They should go to a wood, where there 's no one to hear ! 

There 's a lady besides on the very first floor. 

And on a piano the scale she runs o'er — 

Just do, re, mi, fa, sol, and la, si, and do, 

First up, and then down, sometimes fast, and then slow. 

The janitor too has the musical craze, 

And on the front steps an accordion plays ; 

Oh, I 'd move right away if I could — would n't you ?- 

But my rent is all paid, and so what can I do ? 


By Mrs. C. V. Jamison. 

A uthor of "Lady Jaw." 

[Begun in the May number-.] 

Chapter XXVIII. 


It is not our intention to follow in detail the 
wanderings and adventures of Philip and Lily- 
bel. Their experiences on the pilgrimage to- 
ward the city of their destination would fill too 
many pages for our purpose. 

When Philip went forth on that dreary March 
night, with Pere Josef's " children " and his lit- 
tle bag of treasures, he had formed no plans 
as to the beginning or continuation of his 
journey. His first idea was to get away, his 
second was to get to New Orleans. The first 
did not seem so difficult, and was soon put into 
execution ; but the latter required some serious 
consideration, as all roads do not lead to that 
fair and far city of the South. 

In some respects a pedestrian journey has its 
advantages. One has no difficulty in choosing 
between sea and land, or in deciding between 
rival lines of steamers and railroads; but it is 
very important that one should at least set out 
on the highway that leads to his destination. 

Lilybel had been waiting some time at the 
corner. He was sniffling with cold and impa- 
tience ; lie also carried a bundle, but his bun- 
dle did not contain sentimental souvenirs of 
the past. Philip had not neglected the subsis- 
tence department of the expedition; he had 
given Lilybel money with which to buy pro- 
visions, and these provisions were tied up in 
the bundle, and consisted of bananas, ginger- 
bread, and popped corn; a small tin bucket 
filled with molasses completed the outfit. 

" Well," said Philip, shortly, on seeing him, 
" are you ready ? " 

" Yas, Mars' Philip, I 's ready, I 's got ev'ry- 
t'ing ; but be we 's er-goin' ter stay out all night 
in der rain an' col' ? " 

"Yes, we are," leturned Philip decidedly; 
" and we 've got to walk to keep warm. Come 
on, let 's start for the ferry." And without 
further parley he turned his face toward the 
river and trotted briskly along, followed by 
Lilybel, who lagged and sniffed and complained 
pitifully of the cold. 

As soon as Philip had started, he understood 
that he would be obliged to lead the expedi- 
tion as well as to supply the moral force ; 
therefore he debated in his mind just what was 
best to be done. The first thing was to get 
away from the city — "Or the coppers '11 be 
arter us," Lilybel said, between his sniffs, " an' 
we '11 be cotched an' sont back, an' dey '11 put 
us in der p'lice-station fer runnin' erway, an' 
we 's '11 never git out." 

This possibility really alarmed Philip. In 
spite of the dreadful unknown before him, he 
did not wish to be sent back, so he pressed on 
sturdily toward the ferry. He was neither cold 
nor wet ; his thick little coat shed the rain, and 
his heart was warm with hope. 

When they reached the ferry slip, and Lily- 
bel saw the boat and the dark water of the 
North River, he hung back, saying stubbornly: 
" I ain't er-gwine on any steamboat ter New 
'Leens. I 's er-gwine ter walk, I is." 

" But you must cross the ferry first ; this is 
only a ferry. Come on — the boat is about 
starting. If you don't come, I '11 go without 
you," returned Philip decidedly. 

" I don't wan' ter," sniffled Lilybel, as Philip 
gave his tickets to the gate-keeper, and at 
the same time with an energetic push thrust the 
reluctant little darky into the thickest of the 
crowd, and so passed on unnoticed in the dark- 
ness. When they were once safely on the 
other side, Philip walked a little slower. He 
was formulating a plan in his mind. With an 
intelligence beyond his years, he felt that it 


would not be well at first to make such in- 
quiries as would cause any one to suspect his 
destination. If he was not very discreet, he 
might furnish a clue that would lead to his 
being overtaken and sent back. Therefore he 
determined not to ask for directions which 
would awaken suspicion. He remembered 
distinctly two places which he had passed 
through on his way North with his adopted 
parents. One was Chattanooga; it was im- 
pressed on his mind because they remained 
there in order to visit Lookout Mountain, the 
scene of the " Battle in the Clouds." The 
other was Washington ; Mrs. Ainsworth had 
told him that it was the capital of the country. 
If they passed through those cities to come to 
New York, they could go South by the same 
route. So he decided to begin by inquiring 
the way to Washington. 

So full of determination, so brave and hope- 
ful was the boy that he would not have been 
daunted or even discouraged had he 
known of the long weary days, weeks, 
and even months, when he must 
always be toiling on ; of the cold, 
hunger, pain, and suffering he 
must endure ; the hills, val- 
leys, and forests, the rivers 
and lakes he must cross 
before he could reach 
his desired haven. 

When the night 
was half spent, the 
two little pilgrims 
found themselves 
beyond the blare 
and glare of Jersey 
City in a quiet, 
slumbering suburb. 
Lilybel was ex- 
hausted, and de- 
clared he could go 
no farther, so they 

sat down on the steps of a half-finished house 
and munched a piece of the black gingerbread 
and a banana, after which Lilybel crawled under 
the steps among a pile of shavings, and was 
soon in the land of dreams, where one is seldom 
tired, cold, and hungry. 

For some time Philip sat in the silence and 


looked at the stars. " There 's the Dipper," he 
said to himself; " Mammy used to show it to 
me. It 's just as bright here, and just as near, 
so it can't be far to New Orleans; and there 's 
the Little Bear — it used to be right over the 
Pittosporum tree in Mammy's garden. It looks 
just the same as it did then, and it 's shining 
there and here at the same time." Sitting alone 
in the dark, with Pere Josef's " children " hugged 
close to him, he felt that he had seen old friends 
in the "Dipper" and the "Little Bear"; that 
he would have their company on his long jour- 
ney back to his home; he thought the way 
could not seem so long and dreary while they 
were shining above him. 

After a while he felt cold and his eyes grew 
heavy with sleep. So he crawled under the 
steps beside Lilybel, who was in a comfortable 
nest of shavings, and placing the "children" 


between them, and his treasures under his 
head, he contentedly followed his little com- 
panion into the enchanting land of dreams. 




At the earliest peep of day Philip was awak- 
ened by the scampering of the "children" in the 
cage. They were up early, and were indulging 
in a game of cotin-maillard. Lilybel was still 
sleeping, and was sure to sleep all day if he 
was not disturbed. 

" Why, Mars' Philip, it ain't time ter git up!" 
he cried dolorously, rubbing his eyes and yawn- 
ing, while Philip shook him vigorously. 

" Yes, it is ; now, hurry and eat your break- 
fast, and we '11 start right off before any one is 

Philip gave the "children" a few grains of 
popped corn, and ate a banana with a very 
poor appetite, while Lilybel fared sumptuously 
on a huge piece of gingerbread ; then, after 
making their toilets, which consisted in brush- 
ing off the clinging shavings and sawdust, they 
went on their way — but not rejoicing. 

The morning was cold and gray. Philip's 
head ached and his feet felt like lead, but still 
he must press on ; he must not give up when 
he had just begun the journey. Later, they 
stopped at a farm-house to ask for some water. 
It was breakfast-time, and the kind-hearted 
mother of a little boy gave them each a hot 
buttered roll and a cup of steaming coffee. 
This good fare cheered and encouraged them 
considerably, and they pressed on in quite a 
cheerful mood. 

All day they walked, Philip resolutely, Lily- 
bel laggingly. When they inquired the way to 
Washington, some laughed and said : " Keep 
straight ahead and you '11 get there in a week 
or so." Others told them they did n't know 
the way, that it was too far to walk there, and 
that they had better go by rail, and so on. 
Philip thanked them all with a gentle smile 
and trotted on serenely, but the day seemed 
the longest day that he had ever spent. 

When night came on they were near a rail- 
road station on the outskirts of a small village. 
Philip was very hungry, for he had eaten no- 
thing since morning; but Lilybel had supplied 
himself by lightening his bundle to such an ex- 
tent that nothing remained but a handful of 
popped corn, and for this dry fare Philip had 
no appetite. When they reached the station a 
freight-train was pulled up on the track, and 
it seemed to be waiting for the engine in order 

to start. Two men were in the caboose, and 
as he was about to pass, Philip looked wist- 
fully at them. They were eating supper, and 
had a pot of coffee between them. The tired 
boy craved some of the grateful beverage, but 
he did not like to beg, so he drew out a dime 
and asked them very politely if they would sell 
him some. 

The men laughed heartily. " Why, my little 
man, we don't keep a coffee-stand; but I guess 
we can give you some." So they poured out a 
large tin cup full. It was strong and sweet, 
but it was not Mocha ; yet Philip thought he 
had never tasted better. He gratefully drank 
half, and gave the remainder to Lilybel. 

The little negro had been regarding the bread 
and bacon with an eloquent look, which the 
kind-hearted men appreciated. After the coffee 
disappeared, each little pilgrim received a 
generous plate of food, which they devoured 
eagerly. "Hunger is the best sauce": Philip 
relished his supper as he never did a meal 
served on Madam Ainsworth's dainty china 
by the capable and stately Bassett. 

After they had eaten, Philip thanked the 
men politely, and was about to move on. 

" Where are ye goin', little fellows ? " asked 
one, — rough-looking without, but pure gold 

" We 're going to Washington," replied Philip 

" Great Cassar! — ye are? How yer goin'?" 

" We 're going to walk," said Philip, un- 

" When do ye expect to git there ? " 

" Oh, I don't know; to-morrow, perhaps." 

" Ha, ha ! Well, git in here an' come along 
with us, and ye will ; but if ye walk, it '11 take 
ye a month, an' yer shoes '11 be all wore out." 

Philip and Lilybel scrambled into the ca- 
boose with alacrity and delight. The kind oc- 
cupants gave them a little bunk in the corner, 
where they slept comfortably; and in the morn- 
ing they were in Washington, much to their 

Philip would have liked to show the kind 
men the " children," but he was afraid to do 
so; he was wise enough to know that they 
would be another means of tracing him. So 
he could only thank his hospitable hosts very 

i8 94 .; 



warmly as he walked away with a much lighter 

" See here, Lilybel," he said confidently to his 
companion, " now we 're a good long way from 
New York, we need n't be in such a hurry. 
I 've got some money, and we '11 stay here and 
rest awhile." 

" An' yer can make lots more a-showin' dem 
little mices," suggested Lilybel. " Did n't I 
tole yer we 'd git lots er lifts on dem trains ? I 
guess now we won't have ter walk no more." 

Philip was very hopeful; he quite agreed 
with Lilybel — everything was going so well. 
It would be very easy to get home, after all. 
So they sallied forth to see the city with the 
confidence and carelessness of a couple of 
young millionaires out for a holiday. 

Chapter XXIX. 


Philip had been gone a month. Mrs. Ains- 
worth had been very anxious and unhappy, 
and had certainly done all that she could in 
the absence of her husband, and in the face 
of her mother-in-law's constant discourage- 
ments. A great many letters had passed 
between the detective employed and Mr. 
Ainsworth. The latter, remembering Lilybel's 
former methods of traveling, thought that the 
little negro, who had also disappeared, had in- 
duced Philip to hide with him on an outward- 
bound steamer, and that they were doubtless 
in New Orleans ; but communications with the 
captains of the different steamers, and the po- 
lice of that city convinced him that the chil- 
dren had not gone by sea, nor had they, as far 
as he and the detective could learn, returned 
to their former home. 

Madam Ainsworth, who was not at all 
anxious to have them discovered, was of the 
opinion that they had never left New York, 
and she was in daily fear that they would un- 
expectedly turn up, and that Philip would be 
forgiven and taken back. However, as weeks 
passed away, she began to feel easier, and was 
more than vexed at her daughter-in-law for 
being anxious and worried about what she 
termed " unexpected good fortune." They had 
got rid of the little waif through no fault of 
Vol. XXI.— 46. 

theirs. They had not turned him off; he had 
gone of his own free will, and they were not in 
any way responsible for it. She did not see 
why they should search for him and want him 
back. If they succeeded in finding him he 
would probably run away again, and they would 
have a repetition of all the trouble and expense. 
There was no doubt but that the boy was 
something of a vagabond, and as he grew older 
he would be more unruly and troublesome, 
therefore they were well rid of him before he 
should disgrace them. 

These were the specious arguments which 
she used with her daughter-in-law, and with 
which she quieted her own conscience; for now 
and then, in spite of her coldness and indiffer- 
ence, she had little twinges which made her 
very uncomfortable. Suddenly the boy's hand- 
some face would come before her; she would 
think of his merry laugh, his gentle, kindly 
ways, and even his little mischievous tricks 
now made her smile and sigh at the same time. 
She remembered the day when he pleaded so 
earnestly for Pere Josef's " children," and the 
touching tone in'his voice that had moved her 
so, and brought back the pain of an old sorrow. 
And toward the last, just before he went away, 
he looked ill ; sometimes she had noticed a 
flush on his cheek, and an unnatural brightness 
in his eyes. Perhaps exposure and want had 
killed him, and even now his little neglected 
body might be lying in some unknown grave. 
These memories and fancies increased day by 
day. In spite of her satisfaction at his contin- 
ued absence, the boy interested her, and occu- 
pied her thoughts away, more than he had 
when he was with her. 

One morning, when she sat down to her 
writing-table to open her letters, she saw on 
the top of the pile a large, strange-looking 
package addressed to her in an unknown hand. 

Her fingers trembled a little as she broke 
the strong seal, and the first object within the 
cover that met her eye was a letter that bore 
her name in writing that she remembered too 
well — the writing of her son, her Philip, who for 
ten long years had sent her no missive to break 
the solemn silence between them. It was like a 
voice from the grave. With an awed face she 
opened it, and read the confession of his mar- 




riage, the tender passionate appeal to his 
mother for his wife and child. 

Why had this been kept from her for all 
these years ? Who had dared to do it ? And 
a feeling of resentment was mingled with her 
sorrow and surprise. One after another she un- 

" What is it? Oh, what has happened?" 
cried Mrs. Ains worth in terror; she had never 
seen the stately old lady weep, and the sight of 
her sorrow was extremely touching. 

" Laura, oh, Laura, how can I ever forgive 
myself?" she exclaimed, when she saw bending 

in-law. " What can we do ? How can we find 
him ? That boy, that child whom I have driven 
away, is Philip's son, 
my poor Philip's son!" — 

" What ? Who ? " in- 
terrupted Mrs. Ains- 
worth wildly. She 
thought the old lady 
had suddenly gone in- 




folded and read the papers : her son's tender over her the pale, pitying face of her daughter- 
little notes to the girl he loved, Pere Josef's 
explanatory letter, and last of all, Toinette's 
touching confession. 

There it all lay before her, the history of 
these young lives : the joys, the sorrows, the 
hopes and ambitions, ending in a mournful 
tragedy, which seemed unreal and almost im- 
possible because of its remoteness. Unknown 
to her, her son was married a year or more be- 
fore his death. The swift memory of that aw- 
ful day, when she was told that he had fallen, 
wrung her heart with pain. He had been taken 
away in the flush of youth and love, and his 
young wife had followed him ; but the child, 
where was the child ? They spoke of 
Philip's child, her grandson, the eldest 
Ains worth. Why had they kept him from 
her all these years ? Who ha3 done it ? 
Where was he ? and why were these 
letters sent to her now ? 

Her mind was in a state of ter- 
rible confusion. Again she read 
Toinette's letter, again Pere 
Josef's, slowly and more care- 
fully. Suddenly, and with 
awful force, the truth burst 
upon her. Toinette's 
Philip ! That boy her 
son had adopted — the 
little waif, the vaga- 
bond, the despised and 
rejected — was her son's 
child, her grandson! The blood 
that flowed in his veins was hers — 
he was her very own, and she had 
driven him away to ruin, and, perhaps, 
death ! 

It was an awful moment for her. Pride and 
composure were forgotten ; she was very human 
and weak in her remorse and sorrow. With a But Madam Ainsworth did not heed the in- 
cry of distress that brought Mrs. Ainsworth to terruption nor the question. " Oh, I am fe'ar- 
the room, she threw herself back in her chair fully punished," she went on excitedly. " There 
and burst into tears. are all the certificates, the letters ; look at them, 






read them. They tell everything, they are as 
clear as day. See what I have brought upon 
myself; I was cold, proud, wicked — I would not 
listen to the pleadings of my heart. I felt for 
that child. I had to struggle with myself not 
to love him. It was the old bitter prejudice, 
the hatred for what had caused the sorrow of 
my life. If he had come from any other place 
on earth I might have done him justice ; but 
I said like those of old, ' Can there any good 
thing come out of Nazareth ? ' and I rejected 
him, although something told me that there was 
a tie between us. Oh, I felt it, that day when I 
was cruel to him, when he pleaded so pitifully 
for his little pets! It was the very tone of 
voice, the very expression of my Philip when 
I used to reprove him for some childish fault. 
Poor little soul; I pitied him, but I almost broke 
his heart and my own with my stubborn pride!" 

While Madam Ainsworth was pouring out her 
bitter self-accusations, Mrs. Ainsworth was look- 
ing over the letters and papers with a puzzled 
bewildered air. " Oh," she said at length, " it 
must be true, he must be Captain Ainsworth's 
child! Edward felt it when he first saw him. 
It was the resemblance to his brother that 
made him love the boy; he told me so then, and, 
beside, he was so like our boy. I was always 
surprised that you could not see the resem- 
blance"; and Mrs. Ainsworth wiped away the 
tears that filled her eyes. " But what can we 
do ? How can we find him ? " and she looked 
helplessly at her mother-in-law, who was mak- 
ing a desperate effort to recover her composure. 

" I must write to Edward at once, he must 
leave that business and come to us," replied 
Madam Ainsworth, decidedly. " What does 
it matter whether we lose or gain money while 
Philip's child is drifting about the world ex- 
posed to want and sin ? Laura, while I am 
writing to Edward send for that detective. 
We must give him more money. We must 
make greater efforts, the child can and must 
be found! Until I see him again I can never 
know peace or happiness; my son will reproach 
me from his grave, and I shall reproach my- 
self as long as I live. There is no time to be 
lost; we must begin this very moment." 

And the ardor and energy with which Ma- 
dam Ainsworth put her plans into execution 

was in striking contrast to her former coldness 
and indifference. 

Chapter XXX. 


The two little pilgrims did not remain long 
in Washington. Lilybel's enormous appetite 
for sweets, and his fondness for sight-seein-g, 
very soon depleted Philip's pocket-book, which 
could not be replenished by exhibiting the 
" children," as the little negro had proposed, 
for Philip was aware that the little cage of 
white mice would furnish a certain means of 
following them, so he kept them carefully cov- 
ered, and seldom allowed them to be seen. 
And he decided in the future to avoid large 
cities, — they offered too many temptations to 
Lilybel, — and to confine himself to country roads 
and obscure villages. 

So they set forth again, as bright and hopeful 
as at first, and drifted on, sometimes a wind of 
chance blowing them in the right direction,